THE 

NAVY    ETERNAL 

which  if 

The  Navy-that-Floats—The  Navy-that-Flies 
and  the  Navy-under-the-sea 

BY 
"BARTIMEUS" 

AUTHOR  or  "THE  LONG  TRICK,"  ETC.    •    . 
DRAWINGS  BY  DOUGLAS  SWALE 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1918, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


i  PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 

CAPTAIN  GORDON  CAMPBELL,  V.C.,  D.S.O. 

ROYAL  NAVY 


A',     _^W 

*      I       !._«•*'  *ij 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PROLOGUE 13 

CHAPTER 

I  " USQUE  AB  Ovo" 19 

II  IN  THE  TWILIGHT 41 

III  THE  NAVY-THAT-FLIES 77 

IV  "LEST  WE  FORGET" 101 

V  THE  FEET  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN       .     .  134 

VI  GIPSIES  OF  THE  SEA 141 

VII  THE  DAY — AND  THE  MORNING  AFTER  .  155 

VIII  THE  NAVY-UNDER-THE-SEA   ....  164 

IX  THE  PORT  LOOK-OUT 184 

X  THE  SURVIVOR 190 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XI  THE  NTH  BATTLE  SQUADRON      ...  205 

XII  MYSTERY 222 

XIII  THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  FLEET     ....  236 

XIV  THE  EPIC  OF  ST.  GEORGE'S  DAY,  1918  251 
EPILOGUE  ,  268 


ILLUSTRATIONS? 


PAGE 


"USQUEABOVO"          ........  19 

HEAVY  M^TAL ..,...,..  41 

A  STRIKING  FORCE     ........  47 

THE  LEFT  FLANK  .     .     .     ...     ,r  ...     •  54 

THE  HUNT .     .     .    V    .  60 

OVERDUE .     .     .     %     .  65 

"TUPPENCE  APIECE"       ....     .     .     .  71 

THE  NAVY-THAT-FLIES     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  77 

THE  DOVER  PATROL   .     .     .     .     .     .*.     .  __  122 

THE  FEET  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN  .     .   ".     .     .  139 

GIPSIES  OF  THE  SEA    .     ,     .     *     .  "  .     .     .  141 

THE  NAVY-UNDER-THE-SEA       ..!..'.  164 

THE  PORT  LOOK-OUT 184 

THE  SURVIVOR .     .  19° 

THE  NTH  BATTLE  SQUADRON 205 

be 


x  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  FLEET 236 

H.  M.  S.  VINDICTIVE 251 

EPILOGUE    . 268 

FINIS 289 


THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 


THE 

NAVY  ETERNAL 


PROLOGUE 

ANYONE  familiar  with  the  River  Dart  knows 
the  Mill  Creek.  The  hills  on  either  side  slope 
steeply  down  to  the  edge  of  the  water,  oak  and 
beech  and  elm  clustering  thick  on  the  one  hand,  red 
plough,  green  shoots,  and  golden  corn-fields  alter- 
nating on  the  other  through  all  the  changing  seasons. 

The  creek  is  tidal,  transformed  at  half-flood  into 
a  fair  expanse  of  shimmering  water;  at  low  tide, 
however,  it  dwindles  to  a  score  of  meagre  channels 
winding  tortuously  through  whale-backed  mud- 
banks,  the  haunt  of  scurrying  crabs  and  meditative 
heron. 

Here,  one  afternoon  in  midsummer  some  dozen 
years  ago,  came  a  gig  (or,  in  local  parlance,  a  "blue- 
boat")  manned  by  seven  flannel-clad  cadets  from 
the  Naval  College.  Six  sat  on  the  thwarts  pulling 
lazily  against  the  last  of  the  ebb.  The  seventh  sat 
in  the  stern,  with  the  yoke-lines  over  his  shoulders, 
refreshing  himself  with  cherries  out  of  a  bag. 

As  they  approached  the  shelving  mud-banks,  pur- 

13 


14  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

pie  in  the  afternoon  sunlight,  the  figure  in  the  bows 
boated  his  oar  and  began  to  sound  cautiously  with 
his  boathook.  The  remaining  five  oarsmen  glanced 
back  over  their  shoulders  and  continued  paddling. 
The  helmsman  smiled  tolerantly,  as  a  man  might 
smile  at  the  conceits  of  childhood,  but  refrained 
from  speech.  They  all  knew  the  weakness  of  the 
bowman  for  dabbling  in  mud. 

"Half  a  point  to  port!"  said  the  slim  form  wield- 
ing the  dripping  boathook.  "I  can  see  the  channel 
now.  .  .  .  Steady  as  you  go!"  A  minute  later  the 
boat  slid  into  the  main  channel  and  the  crew  drew 
in  their  oars,  punting  their  narrow  craft  between  the 
banks  of  ooze.  None  of  them  spoke,  save  the  bow- 
man, and  he  only  at  rare  intervals,  flinging  back  a 
curt  direction  to  the  helmsman  over  his  shoulder. 

For  half  an  hour  they  navigated  the  channels 
winding  up  the  valley,  and  came  at  length  to  a  crum- 
bling stone  quay  beside  the  ruin  of  a  mill.  Ferns 
grew  in  the  interstices  of  the  old  brickwork,  and  a 
great  peace  brooded  over  the  silent  wood  that  tow- 
ered behind.  They  made  the  boat  fast  there;  and 
because  boats  and  the  sea  were  things  as  yet  half- 
unknown  and  wholly  attractive,  none  of  them  at- 
tempted to  land.  Instead,  with  coats  rolled  up  as 
pillows  and  their  straw  hats  tilted  over  their  eyes, 
the  seven  made  themselves  comfortable  as  only  naval 
cadets  could  in  such  cramped  surroundings,  and 
from  under  the  thwarts  each  one  drew  a  paper  bag 
and  a  bottle  of  lemonade. 


PROLOGUE  i£ 

"Dead  low  water,"  said  Number  i  (the  bow 
oar)  presently.  "We  shall  have  a  young  flood 
against  us  going  back;  but  then  there's  no  chance  of 
getting  stuck  on  the  mud."  He  drew  a  bunch  of  keys 
from  his  pocket  and  proceeded  to  take  careful  sound- 
ings round  the  boat,  using  the  keys  as  a  sinker  and 
the  lanyard  as  a  lead-line. 

"Oh,  shut  up  about  your  everlasting  tides,"  said 
Number  2,  "and  keep  quiet;  I  want  to  sleep." 

"They  interest  me,"  replied  Number  I  simply. 
"I  shall  be  a  navigator,  I  think." 

"You'd  better  go  in  for  submarines,"  said  Num- 
ber 4,  applying  himself  to  his  bottle  of  fizzing  bev- 
erage. "Plenty  of  poking  about  mudbanks  in  them 
if  it  interests  you.  One  of  the  first  we  ever  had 
stuck  in  the  mud  one  day  and  never  came  up  again." 

"P'raps  I  shall,"  admitted  the  bow.  "In  fact  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  if  I  did  go  in  for  subma- 
rining." 

Number  3  was  lying  on  his  back  on  the  thwart, 
his  head  resting  on  the  gunwale.  "They'll  never 
come  to  anything,"  he  said.  "The  submarine's  a 
failure."  His  eyes  followed  the  flight  of  a  white- 
winged  gull  that  circled  with  outstretched  wings  far 
above  their  heads.  "No.  It's  going  to  be  in  the  air, 
when  we  have  a  war.  I'm  all  for  flying  machines. 
.  .  ."  He  was  silent  awhile  meditating,  then  turned 
his  head  quickly.  "Bombs!"  he  said.  "Fancy  being 
able  to  drop  bombs  all  over  an  enemy's  country." 

"You  couldn't  do  it,"  said  Number  2.    "You'd  go 


16  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

killing  women  and  civilians.    They'd  never  let  you." 

"Who?"  demanded  the  prospective  aviator,  his 
enthusiasm  rather  damped.  "Who'd  stop  me?" 

"International  Law,"  cut  in  the  coxswain  quickly. 
"Conventions  and  all  that.  .  .  .  Why,  there'd  be 
no  limit  to  anything  if  it  weren't  for  international 
law.  An  enemy  could  go  off  in  his  beastly  subma- 
rine and  paralyse  the  trade  routes." 

"Paralyse  'em — how?"  inquired  the  bow  man. 

"Just  torpedoing  'em,  of  course,  you  ass." 

"What,  merchant  ships?" 

The  jurist  nodded. 

"But  no  one  could  do  that.  I  mean  you'd  never 
get  a  naval  officer  to  do  that,  international  law  or  no 
international  law.  That  'ud  be  piracy — -like  those 
fellows  at  Algiers.  'Member  the  lecture  last  week?" 

"I  don't  mean  we'd  do  it,"  conceded  the  cox- 
swain. "But  some  nations  might." 

The  idealist  shook  his  head.  "No  naval  officer 
would,"  he  repeated  stoutly,  "whatever  his  nation- 
ality." 

"The  surface  of  the  sea's  good  enough  for  me," 
chipped  in  No.  2.  "I  don't  want  to  bomb  women 
or  torpedo  merchant  ships.  I'm  going  to  be  captain 
of  a  destroyer."  He  raised  his  head.  "Thirty  knots 
at  night,  my  boy!  .  .  .  Upper-deck  torpedo  tubes 
and  all  that.  .  .  ." 

"I'd  blow  you  out  of  the  water  with  a  1 2-inch 
gun,"  said  Number  5,  speaking  for  the  first  time, 
and  laying  aside  a  magazine.  "Gunnery  is  going  to 


PROLOGUE  171 

save  this  country  if  ever  we  have  a  war.  That's 
why  gunnery  lieutenants  get  promoted  quickly — my 
governor  told  me  so." 

"Did  he?"  said  the  stroke  oar.  "He's  wrong. 
You  can  only  fire  big  guns  from  big  ships,  and  you 
know  what  happened  to  big  ships  in  the  Russo-Jap- 


anese war." 


"What?"  inquired  the  visionary  coldly. 

"Mines.  Big  ships  can't  move  when  there  are 
mines  about." 

"We  don't  use  mines  any  longer,"  said  the  cox- 
swain, crumpling  up  his  empty  bag  and  throwing  it 
over  the  side.  It  floated  slowly  past  the  boat  towards 
the  head  of  the  valley.  "They're  not  considered 
sporting.  'Sides,  even  if  you  could,  you  can  always 
countermine,  and  sweep  'em  up.  My  brother  went 
through  a  course  in  the  Mediterranean  once — place 
called  Platea.  I  remember  him  telling  me  about  it." 

The  stroke  oar  sat  upright  and  glanced  the  length 
of  the  boat.  "Wouldn't  it  be  a  rum  thing,"  he  said, 
"if  there  was  a  war  some  day  and  we  were  all  in  it." 
He  ticked  off  their  names  on  his  fingers:  "Submarine, 
aeroplane,  destroyer,  minelayer,  minesweeper,  bat- 
tleship— . — "  He  paused.  "I'd  like  to  be  in  a  cruis- 
er," he  said.  "A  big  cruiser  scouting  ahead  of  the 
Fleet.  You'd  get  more  excitement  there  than  any- 
where." His  voice  deepened  to  a  sudden  note  of 
triumph.  "It  'ud  be  the  forefront  of  the  battle." 

"Then  we'd  all  meet  afterwards,"  said  Number 
2,  "and  have  a  blow-out  somewhere  ashore  and  talk 


1 8  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

about  our  experiences.  Wouldn't  that  be  topping?" 
The  bow  oar  sat  with  his  eyes  on  the  crumpled 
paper  bag  that  floated  up-stream,  shading  them 
against  the  glow  of  the  sun  turning  all  the  creeks 
into  molten  gold.  "Those  of  us  that  were  left,"  he 
said  dreamily.  "Tide's  turned.  .  .  .  We'd  better 
think  about  getting  back." 


CHAPTER  I 

"USQUE  AB  Ovo" 


EMINISCENCES     of 

those  days  "in  the  dis- 
tance enchanted"  never  come 
in  an  orderly  procession  ac- 
cording to  the  original  se- 
quence of  events. 
Some,  for  reasons 
quite  inexplicable, 
jostle  their  way  to 
the  fore  readily  enough.  Others,  dim  and  elusive, 
hover  in  the  background,  and  only  respond  to  the 
lure  of  firelight  and  tobacco  smoke  ascending  in- 
cense-wise from  the  depths  of  the  arm-chair. 

Sooner  or  later,  though,  they  can  all  be  caught 
and  held  for  the  moment  needed  to  record  them. 
The  difficulty  is  to  know  where  to  start.  .  .  . 
Harker  is  foremost  among  the  "thrusters"  in  the 

19 


20  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

surging  crowd  of  memories  of  the  old  Britannia 
days.  Harker,  with  his  piercing,  rather  melancholy 
eyes,  his  black  beard  and  tattooed  wrists,  and  his  air 
of  implacable  ferocity  that  for  months  succeeded  in 
concealing  from  his  term  a  heart  as  tender  as  a 
woman's. 

His  name  was  not  actually  Harker,  of  course;  but 
he  is  probably  still  alive,  and  even  retired  chief  petty 
officers  of  the  Royal  Navy  have  their  susceptibilities. 
He  was  a  term  C.P.O. — mentor,  wet-nurse,  "sea- 
daddy,"  the  outward  and  visible  embodiment  of 
Naval  Discipline  to  sixty-odd  naval  cadets  who  yes- 
terday were  raw  schoolboys  and  to-day  wear  the 
King's  uniform  and  eke  brass  buttons — a  transition 
unhinging  enough  to  more  matured  souls  than  those 
of  his  charges. 

How  he  succeeded  in  conveying  within  the  space 
of  the  first  evening  the  exceedingly  unfamiliar  routine 
of  training-ship  life,  the  art  of  turning  into  a  ham- 
mock, the  necessity  for  keeping  their  chests  locked, 
the  majesty  of  the  term  lieutenant  and  the  omnipo- 
tence of  the  chief  cadet  captains,  to  sixty  bewildered 
fifteen-year-olds,  only  he  knows. 

Yet  he  harried  none ;  they  were  conscious  of  him 
as  a  flock  of  disconcerted  sheep  are  aware  of  a  wise 
collie.  His  voice  was  never  still:  it  was  to  be  pre- 
sumed that  he  slept  at  some  mysterious  time  during 
the  twenty-four  hours,  and  yet  his  square,  compact 
form  seemed  to  be  always  drifting  about  at  all  hours 
of  the  day  and  night.  Even  when  a  hapless  wight 


"USQUE  AB  OVO"  21 

(in  the  throes  of  nightmare)  tipped  bodily  out  of  his 
hammock  on  to  the  deck  the  first  night,  it  was  Har- 
ker  who  appeared  noiselessly  out  of  the  shadows  to 
tuck  him  in  again. 

Their  names  he  had  pat  within  twenty-four  hours ;; 
this  tightened  his  grip  of  the  term  instantly,  but  it 
also  caused  him  to  be  regarded  as  scarcely  canny. 
Indeed,  it  was  disconcerting  enough  to  regard  your- 
self one  moment  as  an  insignificant  and  unknown  unit 
among  250  others,  and  in  this  comfortable  reflec- 
tion to  lean  in  a  degage  attitude  against  the  white 
paintwork  (one  of  the  seven  deadly  sins)  :  then  to 
hear  admonition  and  your  name,  coupled  together 
like  chain-shot,  ring  out  along  the  crowded  main- 
deck.  Harker  had  seen  you. 

There  were  other  C.P.O.'s  on  board:  each  term 
owned  one.  But  they  were,  by  comparison  with 
Harker,  sorry  fellows.  One  was  reputed  to  be  given 
to  beating  the  big  drum  at  Salvation  Army  meetings 
ashore,  garbed,  moreover,  in  a  scarlet  jersey.  Hotly 
his  term  denied  it,  but  the  story  was  stamped  with 
the  unimpeachable  authority  of  the  boatswain's  mate 
of  the  lower-deck:  a  godless  seaman,  conversation 
with  whom,  being  of  a  spicy  and  anecdotal  nature, 
was  forbidden. 

Another  was  admittedly  of  a  good  enough  heart, 
but  a  sentimentalist,  and  consequently  to  be  despised. 
On  the  occasion  of  the  chastisement  of  an  evil-doer, 
his  was  the  arm  chosen  to  administer  the  strokes 
with  all  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  an  official 


22  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

execution.  He  laid  the  strokes  on  well  and  truly— 
that  much  the  victim  himself  admitted.  But  when 
he  turned  from  his  duty  his  eyes  were  observed  to 
have  tears  in  them.  His  term  had  in  consequence 
to  adopt  an  apologetic  manner  for  a  considerable 
time  afterwards. 

It  was  a  similar  scene,  but  one  in  which  Harker 
played  the  Lord  High  Executioner,  that  must  here 
be  recorded.  The  setting  alone  was  sufficient  to 
strike  awe  and  even  terror  into  the  spectator's  hearts. 
And  now,  after  the  lapse  of  years,  recalling  the  cir- 
cumstances of  that  harrowing  quarter  of  an  hour,  it 
is  doubtful  whether  there  was  not  just  some  such 
motive  behind  the  grim  circumstance  that  led  up  to 
the  painful  consummation. 

The  scene  was  the  orlop-deck.  What  light  there 
was  came  in  through  the  open  gun-ports,  slanting  up- 
wards off  the  water.  Not  cheering  sunlight,  you  un- 
derstand, but  a  greenish  sickly  gleam  that  struggled 
ineffectually  with  the  shadows  clinging  like  vampires 
among  the  low  oak  beams  overhead. 

The  victim's  term  were  fallen-in  in  a  hollow 
square  about  the  horse — a  block  of  wood  supported 
on  short  legs,  with  ring-bolts  and  canvas  straps  hang- 
ing from  each  corner.  Then  there  came  a  pause. 
Possibly  the  captain  had  not  finished  his  breakfast; 
or  perhaps  Harker  had  for  once  made  a  mistake  and 
got  his  term  there  too  early.  But  for  the  space  of 
several  minutes  (or  weeks,  or  years)  the  term  stood 
in  shuddering  contemplation  of  this  engine. 


"USQUE  AB  OVO"  23 

Then  one  of  the  spectators,  the  victim  of  either  an 
over-rich  imagination  or  an  acutely  sensitive  con- 
science, dramatically  fainted  and  was  borne  forth. 
After  that  things  began  to  happen.  The  malefactor 
appeared,  accompanied  by  Harker.  The  captain, 
the  term  lieutenant,  and  (a  thrill  ran  through  the 
onlookers)  the  surgeon  followed.  It  was  half-ex- 
pected that  the  chaplain  would  also  join  the  group 
and  administer  ghostly  consolation  to  the  culprit, 
who,  it  must  be  reluctantly  admitted,  looked  rather 
pleased  with  himself. 

His  offence  was  not  one  to  alienate  him  from  the 
hearts  of  his  fellows.  If  memory  serves  aright,  he 
had  been  overheard  to  refer  to  his  late  crammer  in 
terms  that  may  or  may  not  have  been  just,  but  were 
certainly  not  the  way  a  little  gentleman  should  talk. 
But  his  term — or  most  of  them — were  still  smarting 
under  the  recollections  of  crammers'  methods  and 
were  disposed  to  regard  the  delinquent's  lapse  rather 
more  as  a  pardonable  ebullition  of  feeling  than  a 
breach  of  morality.  In  short  he  was  a  bit  of  a  hero. 

"Chief  Petty  Officer  Harker,"  said  the  stern  voice 
of  the  term  lieutenant,  "do  your  duty."  The  harrow- 
ing preliminaries  completed,  Chief  Petty  Officer  Har- 
ker did  it,  as  was  to  be  expected  of  him,  uncom- 
monly well. 

The  victim  took  it,  as  was  also  to  be  expected 
of  him,  uncommonly  well.  It  was  not  long  before 
these  lines  were  written  that  he  was  called  upon  to 
meet  a  sterner  and  his  last  ordeal.  The  pity  is  that 


24  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

no  spectator  can  bear  testimony  to  the  worthier  cour- 
age with  which  he  must  have  met  it. 

Harker  it  was  who  smelt  out,  like  a  Zulu  witch- 
doctor, the  grass  snake  and  dormouse  that  lived  a 
life  of  communistic  ease  and  reflection  in  the  washing 
till  of  someone's  sea-chest.  Harker' s  the  suspicious 
mind  that  led  to  official  "ruxes"  of  private  tills,  and 
the  confiscation  of  meerschaum  pipes,  Turkish  ciga- 
rettes, and  other  contraband.  Yet  all  this  without 
any  effect  of  espionage. 

The  nearest  approach  to  active  espionage  that 
Harker  permitted  himself  was  hovering  in  the  vicin- 
ity of  the  gangway  when  the  terms  were  landed  for 
daily  recreation.  The  law  of  the  Medes  and  Per- 
sians had  it  that  during  cold  weather  all  cadets  not 
playing  games  must  land  wearing  a  particularly  des- 
spicable  form  of  under-garment :  a  woolly  and 
tucked-into-the-socks  abomination  that  the  soul  of 
every  right-minded  cadet  revolted  from.  As  the 
procession  passed  under  the  low  gangway  on  its 
way  to  the  launches  alongside,  Harker,  lurking  in 
the  vicinity,  would  suddenly  pounce  upon  a  suspect. 

"  'Ave  we  got  our  DRAWERS  on,  Mr.  So-and-so?" 
came  the  merciless  query.  The  progress  of  the  pro- 
cession was  arrested  while  Mr.  So-and-so  racked  his 
trains  for  some  suitable  parry  to  this  very  leading 
question.  A  damning  negative  having  eventually 
been  extorted,  the  underclad  one  was  hauled  from 
the  ranks  and  given  three  minutes  in  which  to  get  to 
his  chest,  extract  from  his  wardrobe  the  garment 


"USQUE  AB  OVO"  25 

that  found  such  high  favour  in  Olympian  eyes,  put 
it  on,  and  rejoin  the  tail  of  the  procession.  Thus  a 
first  offender;  a  second  offence  resulted  in  "no  land- 
ing.'* There  was  no  appeal. 

The  muddy,  tired,  ever-hungry  throng  that  re- 
turned some  three  hours  later  again  passed  on  board 
under  this  lynx-eyed  surveillance.  This  time  illicit 
"stodge"  was  the  subject  of  Harker's  unquenchable 
suspicions. 

Smuggling  stodge  on  board  (another  of  the  seven 
deadly  sins)  required  considerable  ingenuity,  owing 
to  the  ban  the  authorities  thought  necessary  to  im- 
pose on  pockets.  Regular  outfitters  pandered  to  this 
Olympian  whim,  and  constructed  trousers  with  an 
embryonic  fob  just  large  enough  to  hold  a  few  coins. 
The  unorthodox,  who  arrived  with  garments  bear- 
ing the  stamp  of  provincialism  and  pockets,  were 
bidden  to  surrender  them  forthwith,  and  stout  fingers 
ruthlessly  sewed  the  pockets  up. 

The  jacket  had  only  one,  a  breast  pocket  already 
congested  by  keys,  handkerchief,  letters  from  home, 
pet  bits  of  indiarubber,  and  the  like.  Remained 
therefore  the  despised  garment  already  alluded  to. 
This,  being  tucked — by  official  decree — into  the 
wearer's  socks,  formed  an  admirable  hold-all  for  a 
packet  of  butterscotch — worked  flat — a  snack  of 
Turkish  Delight,  or  a  peculiar  and  highly  favoured 
form  of  delicacy  known  as  "My  Queen." 

With  a  not  too  saintly  expression,  an  unflinching 
eye,  and  a  sufficiently  baggy  pair  of  trousers,  the 


36  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

contrabandist  might  count  on  a  reasonable  amount 
of  success.  But  Harker's  X-ray  glance  rarely  failed 
him. 

That  stern,  incisive  voice  would  rivet  all  eyes  upon 
the  culprit  just  when  the  muster  by  the  officer  of 
the  day  had  been  completed,  and  the  long  ranks 
awaited  the  stentorian  dismissal  of  the  chief  cadet 
captain. 

"Mr.  Z !  You'll  step  along  to  the  sick-bay  when 
we  falls  out." 

The  blanched  smuggler  clutched  at  his  momen- 
tarily abandoned  halo  of  rectitude. 

"Sick-bay  I"  he  echoed  indignantly.  "Why  the 
sick-bay?  There's  nothing  wrong  with  me — I  swear 
there  isn't.  I  never  felt  better  in  my  life." 

"That  there  nasty  swelling  on  your  shin,"  was 
the  pitiless  reply,  "did  ought  to  be  seen  to  at  once. 
A  draught,  that  had  fluttered  the  carefully  selected 
baggy  trousers  against  their  wearer's  legs,  had  been 
his  undoing.  The  game  was  up. 

Like  all  truly  great  men,  Harker  could  unbend 
without  discipline  suffering  an  iota.  As  the  months 
passed  and  his  term  of  fledgling  "News"  acquired 
the  modest  dignity  of  "Threes"  (second-term  ca- 
dets) ,  Harker's  methods  changed.  He  was  no  longer 
the  detective,  inquisitor,  encyclopaedia  of  a  thousand 
unfamiliar  phrases,  events,  and  objects.  His  term 
were  on  their  feet  now,  treading  in  their  turn  paths 
fiercely  illumined  by  the  new  first  term's  gaping  ad- 
miration and  curiosity.  They  were  an  example. 


"USQUE  AB  OVO"  23 

"  'Ow  long  'ave  we  been  in  the  Britannia?"  he 
would  demand  reproachfully  when  some  breach  of 
the  laws  called  for  reproof.  "  'Ere  we  are  in  our 
second  term,  an*  talkin'  about  HUP-STAIRS!" 

The  scorn  in  his  voice  was  like  a  whiplash. 

"When  you  young  gentlemen  goes  to  sea  you  won't 
find  no  STAIRS!" 

When  they  went  to  sea !  That  was  the  gradually 
increasing  burden  of  his  song.  For  a  while  it  pre- 
sented a  picture  too  remote  almost  for  serious  con- 
templation. It  was  practically  a  figure  of  speech, 
meaningless.  But  as  time  went  on,  and  the  suc- 
cessive dignities  of  "Sixer"  and  "Niner"  (third  and 
fourth — the  last — terms)  loomed  up  and  passed 
into  reality,  and  at  last  the  Great  Wall  of  the  final 
examination  alone  stood  between  them  and  the  sea- 
going gunrooms  of  the  Fleet,  the  words  took  on  their 
real  significance. 

Harker  abandoned  even  sarcasm.  He  became 
guide,  philosopher,  and  friend,  a  patient  mentor  al- 
ways accessible — generally  somewhere  on  the  chest- 
deck — in  leisure  hours  to  thirsters  after  knowledge. 
Was  one  shaky  in  that  branch  of  nautical  lore  known 
as  "Bends  and  Hitches"?  Harker's  blunt  fingers 
tirelessly  manipulated  the  end  of  a  hammock-lash- 
ing until  the  pupil  could  make  even  a  "sheep-shank" 
with  his  eyes  shut. 

Another  would  bring  him,  in  a  welter  of  grease 
and  ravelled  strands,  a  tortured  mass  of  hemp-rope. 

"It's  meant  to  be  a  Long  Splice,"  was  the  explana- 


28  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

tion,  "but  I  don't  seem  to  get  it  right — ever,"  and 
with  a  despondent  sigh  it  would  be  thrust  into  Har- 
ker's  hands. 

Harker  would  examine  the  interwoven  strands, 
twisting  it  to  and  fro  with  jerks  of  his  powerful 
wrists,  pulling  taut  here,  tucking  something  in  there, 
and  lo !  the  thing  took  shape. 

"This  is  where  you  goes  wrong,  Mr.  P.,  every 
time !"  (Recollect  there  were  sixty-odd  in  his  term.) 
"Don't  forget  what  I'm  always  telling  you.  You 
splits  the  middle  strands,  and  then  an  over-' and  knot 
in  the  opposite  'alves.  .  .  ."  It  always  looked  so 
easy  when  Harker  did  it. 

It  was  during  the  last  night  on  board  that  Harker 
rose  to  heights  truly  magnanimous.  The  fourth 
term  regarded  it  as  its  right  and  privilege,  on  the 
last  night  of  the  term,  to  hold  high  carnival  until 
sleep  overtook  them.  Cadet  captains  even  cast  their 
responsibilities  to  the  winds  that  night  and  scam- 
pered about,  slim,  pyjama-clad  figures,  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  lanters,  ruthlessly  cutting  down  the  prig 
who  yearned  for  slumber,  lashing-up  a  victim  in  his 
hammock  and  leaving  him  upside-down  to  reflect  on 
certain  deeds  of  the  past  year  that  earned  him  this 
retribution,  floating  about  on  gratings  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  plunge  baths,  and  generally  celebrating  in 
a  fitting  manner  the  eve  of  the  day  that  was  to  her- 
ald in  new  responsibilities  and  cares. 

Harker,  who  for  fifteen  months  had  haunted  the 
shadows  on  the  look-out  for  just  such  a  "rux,"  whose 


"USQUE  AB  OVO"  29 

ear  caught  every  illicit  sound — even  the  crunch  of 
the  nocturnal  butterscotch — Harker  was  for  once 
unseeing  and  unseen.  It  needed  but  this  crowning 
act  of  grace  to  endear  him  for  ever  to  his  depart- 
ing flock. 

Yet  he  had  one  more  card  to  play,  and  played  it 
as  he  passed  in  farewell  from  carriage  to  carriage 
of  the  departing  train.  Further,  he  dealt  it  with 
accentuated  emphasis  for  the  benefit  of  those  he 
thought  needed  the  reminder  most. 

"Gosh!"  ejaculated  such  a  one  when  Harker 
passed  to  the  next  carriage:  he  flopped  back  on  to 
his  seat.  "Did  you  hear?  He  said  'sir!'  to  each 
one  of  us  when  he  said  good-bye!" 

So  much  for  Harker.  But  he  brought  with  him  a 
number  of  other  memories  entangled  somehow  about 
his  personality,  and  on  these  it  may  be  as  well  to 
enlarge  a  little  ere  they  slip  back  into  the  limbo  of 
the  forgotten  pa,st. 

It  says  much  for  the  vividness  of  Harker' s  per- 
sonality that  he  outran  in  these  reminiscences  the 
memory  of  "Stodge."  Certainly  few  interests 
loomed  larger  on  the  horizon  of  these  days  than 
the  contents  of  the  two  canteens  ashore. 

There  was  one  adjacent  to  the  landing-place:  a 
wise  forethought  of  the  authorities,  enabling  a  fel- 
low to  stay  his  stomach  during  the  long  climb  from 
the  river  to  the  playing  fields,  where  the  principal 
canteen  stood. 

"Stodge"  was  of  a  surpassing  cheapness.     That 


30  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

much  was  essential  when  the  extent  of  the  weekly 
pocket-money  was  limited  (if  memory  is  to  be  trust- 
ed) to  one  shilling.  Further  it  was  of  a  pleasing 
variety,  certain  peculiar  combinations,  hallowed  by 
tradition,  being  alone  unchanging. 

Of  these  the  most  popular  was  the  "Garry  Sand- 
wich." Components :  a  half-stick  of  chocolate  cream 
sandwiched  between  two  "squashed-fly"  biscuits;  the 
whole  beaten  thin  with  a  cricket-bat,  gymnasium 
shoe,  or  other  implement  handy.  The  peculiarity  of 
this  particular  form  of  dainty  was  that  it  sufficed  as 
an  unfailing  bribe  wherewith  to  open  negotiations 
with  one  Dunn,  the  septuagenarian  keeper  of  the 
pleasure  boats.  The  moral  atmosphere  of  the  boat- 
house,  in  consequence  of  its  custodian's  sweetness  of 
tooth,  came  in  time  to  resemble  that  of  a  Chinese 
yamen. 

Another  delicacy  about  which  legend  clustered 
was  the  "Ship's  Bun,"  split  in  half,  with  a  liberal 
cementing  of  Devonshire  cream  and  strawberry  jam 
oozing  out  at  the  sides.  Concerning  the  bun  itself, 
the  maternal  solicitude  of  the  authorities  extended 
one  gratis  to  each  cadet  ashore  on  half-holidays  lest 
the  impecunious  should  hunger  unnecessarily  be- 
tween lunch  and  tea.  The  buns  were  obtainable  on 
application  at  the  counter,  whence  the  daughter  of 
the  proprietor — whom  we  will  call  Maunder — was 
charged  with  the  duty  of  issuing  them. 

How  she  pretended  to  remember  the  two  and  a 
half  hundred  faces  that  presented  themselves  in 


"USQUE  AB  OVO"  31 

surging  crowds  round  the  counter  at  4  p.m.  is  more 
than  her  present  recorder  can  say.  But  even  as  she 
extended  a  bun  to  the  outstretched  grubby  hand  of 
a  suppliant,  an  expression  of  vixen-like  indignation, 
and  cunning  would  transform  her  features. 

"YouVe  'ad  a  bun  afore  1"  she  would  snap  shrilly, 
withdrawing  the  bounty  in  the  nick  of  time.  The 
hungry  petitioner,  cheerfully  acknowledging  defeat 
in  a  game  of  bluff,  would  then  withdraw,  pursued 
by  Miss  Maunder's  invective. 

All  the  same  she  was  not  infallible,  and  on  occa- 
sions hot  protestations  and  even  mutual  recrimina- 
tion rang  to  and  fro  across  the  counter.  Appeal, 
ultimately  carried  to  Mr.  Maunder,  was  treated  in 
much  the  same  way  as  it  is  by  croupiers  at  Monte 
Carlo.  A  gentleman's  word  is  his  word.  But  it 
is  as  well  not  to  be  the  victim  of  too  many  mistakes. 

Maunder,  who  was  occupied  with  the  stern  re- 
sponsibility of  catering  for  the  whim  of  the  rich, 
had  a  way  of  recapitulating  the  orders  from  the  be- 
ginning, adding  up  aloud  as  the  count  went  on,  thus: 

Cadet:  A  strawberry  ice,  please,  Maunder. 

Maunder:  One  strawberry  ice  tuppence. 

Cadet:  Oh,  and  a  doughnut,  while  you're  about  it. 

Maunder:  One  strawberry  ice  one  doughnut 
thruppence. 

Cadet:  That's  just  to  go  on  with.  Then  in  a  bag 
I  want  a  stick  of  cream  chocolate 

Maunder:  One  strawberry  ice  one  doughnut  one 
stick  cream  chocolate  fourpence. 


32  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

Cadet:  (breathlessly)  And  a  bottle  of  barley  su- 
gar and  a  "My  Queen"  and  four  Gary  biscuits  and 
half  a  pound  of  cherries  and  a  bottle  of  lemonade 
and  one  of  ginger  beer  and — that's  all,  I  think. 

Maunder:  (coming  in  a  little  behind,  chanting, 
the  general  effect  being  that  of  a  duet  in  canon) 
One  strawberry  ice  one  doughnut  one  stick  cream 
chocolate  one  bottle  barley  sugar  one  "My  Queen," 
ear.,  etc.,  etc.  .  .  .  And  a  bag  one  an  thruppence 
V-penny.  .  .  .  Thank  you,  sir.  Next,  please. 

On  occasion  demigods  walked  among  the  children 
of  men.  The  visits  of  the  Channel  Fleet  to  Torbay 
usually  brought  over  one  or  two  of  a  lately  depart- 
ed term,  now  midshipmen  by  the  grace  of  God  and 
magnificent  beyond  conception. 

It  was  their  pleasure,  these  immaculately  clad  vis- 
itors, to  enter  the  canteen,  greet  Maunder  with  easy 
familiarity  and  Miss  Maunder  with  something  ap- 
proaching gallantry,  slap  down  a  sovereign  on  the 
counter  and  cry  free  stodge  all  round.  They  would 
even  unbend  further,  dallying  with  a  strawberry  ice 
in  token  of  their  willingness  to  be  as  other  men,  and 
finally  depart  in  a  cloud  of  cigarette  smoke  and  hero- 
worship. 

This  record  is  not  concerned  with  the  fact  that 
on  their  return  on  board  their  ship,  some  hours  later, 
one  suffered  stripes  for  having  forgotten  to  lock 
his  chest  before  he  went  ashore,  and  the  other,  being 
the  most  junior  of  all  the  junior  midshipmen,  was 


"USQUE  AB  OVO"  33 

bidden  swiftly  to  unlace  the  sub's  boots  and  fetch 
his  slippers. 

To  every  dog  his  day. 

Random  memories  such  as  these  necessarily  pre- 
sent individuals  and  incidents,  not  in  the  sequence  of 
their  importance  in  the  cosmos  as  one  sees  it  now, 
but  as  they  appeared  to  the  vision  of  the  Naval 
Cadet,  whose  world  was  an  amiable  chaos. 

Thus  the  Captain  flickers  through  this  kaleido- 
scope an  awesome  bearded  figure,  infinitely  remote 
from  the  small  affairs  of  that  teeming  rabbit-warren 
of  youth.  More  readily  comes  to  mind  the  picture 
of  his  lady  wife,  white-haired,  with  clear  eyes  and 
gentle  voice,  a  memory  somehow  entangled  with  ger- 
aniums in  red  pots  about  the  high-moulded  stern- 
gallery  and  tea  on  Sunday  afternoons  in  the  spacious 
chintz-draped  after-cabin:  with  irksome  football 
sprains,  and  brief  puerile  illnesses  made  more  en- 
durable by  her  visits  to  the  cotside. 

The  Commander,  though  less  awesome  than  the 
Captain,  approached  the  mortal  in  that  he  stooped 
at  times  to  wrath.  His  was  the  cold  eye  before 
which  the  more  hardened  malefactors  quailed;  his 
the  rasping  voice  that  jerked  the  four  terms  to  at- 
tention at  Divisions  each  morning: 

"Young  Gentlemen,  'shun!" 

The  English  public  schoolboy  is  conscious  of 
youth,  and  takes  the  fact  of  being  a  gentleman  for 
granted.  But  to  hear  himself  addressed  by  a  desig- 
nation that  combined  both  qualities  was  a  never- 


34  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

staling  subject  for  inward  mirth  and  a  weird  self- 
congratulation  difficult  of  analysis.  It  conveyed  a 
hint  of  coming  manhood  and  responsibilities :  it  was 
the  voice  of  the  Navy,  bending  on  the  leading  strings, 
heard  for  the  first  time. 

But  on  a  plane  far  nearer  earth  stood  the  Term 
Lieutenants,  each  one  the  god  and  hero,  the  Big 
Brother  of  his  term.  That  they,  their  Boxer  or 
South  African  medal  ribbons,  their  tattoo-marks, 
County  or  International  caps,  biceps,  and  all  the 
things  that  were  theirs,  were  the  objects  of  their 
respective  Term's  slavish  adulation,  goes  without 
saying.  Bloody  encounters  between  their  self-ap- 
pointed champions  over  an  adverse  criticism  or  doubt 
cast  upon  a  forgotten  word  were  not  unknown.  Two 
entire  terms  once  joined  battle  and  bled  each  other's 
noses  the  length  and  breath  of  the  echoing  "Skipper 
Woods"  to  clinch  some  far-flung  argument  as  to  the 
merits  of  their  respective  "Loots." 

There  were  but  four  Term  Lieutenants,  and  they 
were  picked  from  the  wardrooms  of  the  whole  Navy. 
Small  wonder  some  three  hundred  grubby  urchins 
fresh  from  school  found  in  them  admirable  qualities. 

They  were  the  moulds  into  which,  year  by  year, 
the  molten  metal  of  the  Navy's  officer-personnel  was 
poured,  thence  to  be  scattered  about  the  seven  seas, 
tempered  by  winds  and  stress,  and,  in  God's  good 
time,  tested  to  the  uttermost. 

Ashore,  on  the  playing  fields  or  across  the  red 
ploughland  at  the  tails  of  the  beagles,  they  laboured 


"USQUE  AB  OVO"  35 

in  close  intimate  fellowship  with  these  atoms  of  clay 
thrust  by  providence  beneath  their  thumbs.  But  on 
board  it  seemed  they  faded  from  ken,  being  rarely 
seen  save  at  classes  and  musters,  or  when  in  pairs 
the  Term  percolated  through  the  wardroom  for  des- 
sert, plastered  as  to  the  hair,  patent  leather  shod,  to 
sip  and  cough  over  a  glass  of  ambrosial  port  at 
either  elbow  of  their  Lieutenant. 

Seeing  and  unseen,  knowing  their  Terms  as  only 
men  who  spend  their  lives  among  men  can  know 
and  understand  the  embryo,  they  were  the  guiding 
invisible  wisdom  behind  the  Cadet  Captains,  who 
outwardly  ruled  the  decks. 

The  Cadet  Captains  were  chosen  from  the  three 
senior  Terms,  set  apart  from  their  fellows  by  the 
fact  that  they  wore  "standup"  collars  and  a  trian- 
gular gold  badge  on  the  left  cuff. 

Minor  Authority  in  other  guises  was  greeted  much 
the  same  as  it  is  in  all  communities  of  boyhood. 
The  platitudes  of  notice  boards  no  fellow  with  his 
heart  in  the  right  place  could  be  expected  to  remem- 
ber over  well.  The  acknowledged  sway  of  instruc- 
tors and  masters  was  largely  a  matter  of  knowing 
to  a  nicety  how  far  an  adventurous  spirit  could  go 
(in  the  realms  of  Science  and  Freehand  Drawing 
it  was  a  long  way)  before  the  badgered  pedagogue 
turned  and  bit.  Terms  paid  strict  allegiance  to  their 
own  Chief  Petty  Officers.  But,  as  has  already  been 
shown,  this  was  an  affair  of  the  heart  and  the  senti- 


36  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

ments.  He  was  theirs,  and  they  were  his:  thus  it 
had  been  from  the  beginning. 

There  was,  however,  one  voice  that  rarely  re- 
peated an  order,  one  court  from  which  appeal,  if 
possible,  was  undreamed  of — that  of  the  Cadet  Cap- 
tain. Their  rule  was  without  vexatious  tyranny,  but 
it  was  an  iron  rule.  The  selection  of  these  Cadet 
Captains  was  done  carefully,  and  mistakes  were  few. 
The  standard  of  the  whole  was  no  mean  one,  and  for 
three  months  the  Lieutenant  of  the  First  Term  had 
been  studying  the  raw  material,  working  with  it, 
playing  with  it,  talking  to  it — or  rather  listening 
while  it  talked  to  him.  .  .  .  Thus  Cadet  Captains 
were  chosen,  and  the  queer  eager  loyalty  with  which 
the  rest  paid  them  allegiance  was  the  first  stirring 
of  the  quickened  Naval  Spirit,  foreshadowing  that 
strange  fellowship  to  be,  brotherhood  of  discipline 
and  control,  of  austerity  and  a  half-mocking  affec- 
tionate tolerance. 

To  the  Cadet  Captains  perhaps  can  be  attributed 
the  passage,  almost  untarnished  through  the  years, 
of  the  Britannia  traditions.  They  were  concerned, 
these  youthful  Justices  of  the  Peace,  with  more  than 
the  written  law.  If  they  enforced  right  enough,  but 
with  a  tolerance  one  might  expect  of  fifteen  sum- 
mers administering  the  foibles  and  rules  of  fifty. 
On  the  other  hand,  did  a  "new"  unbutton  a  single 
button  of  his  monkey  jacket,  a  "Three"  deign  to 
swing  his  keys,  a  "Sixer"  to  turn  up  his  trousers  or 
tilt  his  cap  on  the  back  of  his  head  (the  prerogative 


"USQUE  AB  OVO"  37 

of  the  "Niner"  or  Fourth  Term),  and  Nemesis  de- 
scended upon  him  ere  he  slept  that  night.  Nemesis, 
by  virtue  of  its  unblemished  character  and  the  fav- 
our its  triangular  badge  found  in  the  eyes  of  the 
gods,  was  allowed  to  turn  in  half  an  hour  after  the 
remainder.  It  occupied  itself  during  this  time  in 
guzzling  cocoa  and  biscuits  smeared  with  strawberry 
jam  provided  for  its  delectation  by  the  authorities — 
though  the  cost  was  said  to  be  defrayed  by  the  par- 
ents of  the  common  herd  relegated  to  hammocks  and 
the  contemplation  of  this  orgy  out  of  one  drowsy 
though  envious  eye. 

Biscuits  finished,  Nemesis  would  draw  from  his 
pocket  a  knotted  "togie"  of  hemp,  and,  having  re- 
moved traces  of  jam  from  his  features,  proceed  to 
administer  summary  justice  in  the  gloom  where  the 
hammocks  swung. 

It  was  of  course  grossly  illegal  and  stigmatised  by 
the  authorities  as  "a  pernicious  system  of  private 
and  unauthorised  punishments."  But  the  alternative 
was  open  to  any  who  cared  to  appeal  to  Caesar.  Ap- 
pealing to  Caesar  meant  spending  subsequent  golden 
afternoons  on  the  parade  ground,  swinging  a  heavy 
bar  bell  to  the  time  of  "Sweet  Dreamland  Faces" 
blared  out  on  a  cornet  by  a  bored  bandsman. 

So  summary  justice  ruled,  and  it  ruled  in  this  wise : 

"Shove  your  knuckles  outside  that  blanket — you 
needn't  pretend  to  be  asleep " 

Chorus  of  snores  deafening  in  their  realism  and 


38  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

self-conscious  rectitude  from  the  wrongdoer's  neigh- 
bours. 

"You  were  slack  attending  belly-muster  *  for  the 
third  time  running " 

"I  swear " 

"You's  better  not  You'll  get  six  more  for  swear- 
ing " 

"Ow!" 

"Don't  make  such  a  rux.  .  .  ." 

"Ow!" 

"If  you  yell  you'll  get  double." 

"Ow!" 

"That's  for  being  slack.  Now  the  other  hand. 
.  .  .  That's  for  'nerving'  "  (modernised  =  swank- 
ing) "with  your  thumbs  in  your  beckets " 

"Ow!" 

"Shut  up !     Stick  your  knuckles  out  properly." 

"I  swear  I  didn't — ow!  .  .  .  Goodnight." 

Memories,  ah,  memories!  Haphazard  but  happy 
as  only  the  far-off  things  can  seem,  half  revealed 
through  the  mists  of  years.  Grim  old  cradle  of  the 
Eternal  Navy,  there  lies  on  my  desk  a  blotting-pad 
hewed  from  your  salt  timbers;  it  may  be  some  whim- 
sical ghost  strayed  out  of  it  to  provoke  these  random 
recollections.  Does  it,  I  wonder,  ever  unite  with 

'"Belly-muster,"  as  its  name  gracefully  implies,  was  a  parade 
of  lightly  clad  suspects  in  procession  past  the  sick  bay  while 
the  lynx-eyed  surgeon  scanned  each  brisket  for  traces  of  incipient 
chicken-pox  rash. 


"USQUE  AB  OVO"  39 

other  ghosts  from  chiselled  garden-seat  or  carved 
candle-stick,  and  there  on  the  moonlit  waters  of  the 
Dart  refashion,  rib  by  rib,  keel  and  strake  and  stem- 
post,  a  Shadow  Ship? 

And  what  of  the  Longshoremen  Billies  that  plied 
for  hire  between  the  shore  and  the  a fter gangway— -> 
Johnnie  Farr  (whom  the  Good  Lawd  durstn't  love), 
Hannaford  of  the  wooden  leg,  and  all  the  rest  of 
that  shell-backed  fraternity?  Gone  to  the  haven  of 
all  good  ships  and  sailormen:  and  only  the  night 
wind  abroad  beneath  the  stars,  whispers  to  the  quiet 
hills  the  tales  of  sharks  and  pirates  and  the  Chiny 
seas  that  once  were  yours  and  ours. 

But  what  familiar  faces  throng  once  more  the 
old  decks  and  cluster  round  the  empty  ports !  Is  it 
only  to  fond  memory  that  you  seemed  the  cheeriest 
and  noblest,  or  did  some  beam  of  the- Glory  to  be 
yours  stray  out  of  the  Hereafter  and  paint  your 
boyish  faces  thus,  O  best-remembered  from  those 
far-off  days? 

You  crowd  too  quickly  now,  you  whose  fair  name 
is  legion,  so  that  the  splendour  of  your  sacrifices 
blur  and  intermingle.  The  North  Sea  knows  you 
and  the  hidden  Belgian  minefields;  the  Aurora  Bore- 
alis  was  the  candle  that  lit  some  to  bed,  and  the  surf 
on  the  beaches  of  Gallipoli  murmurs  to  others  a 
never-ending  lullaby.  Ostend  and  Zeebrugge  will 
not  forget  you,  and  the  countless  tales  of  your  pass- 
ing shall  be  the  sword  hilt  on  which  our  children 
shall  cut  their  children's  teeth. 


40  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

From  out  of  that  Shadow  Ship  lying  at  her  moor- 
ings off  the  old  Mill  Creek  comes  the  faint  echoes 
of  your  boyish  voices  floating  out  across  the  placid 
tide.  Could  we  but  listen  hard  enough  we  might 
catch  some  message  of  good  cheer  and  encourage- 
ment from  you  who  have  had  your  day: 

"We  are  the  Dead.  .  .  . 

To   you   with   failing    hands   <we   throw 
The  torch;  be  yours  to  hold  it  high: 
If  ye  break  faith  ivit/i  us  who  die, 
We  shall  not  sleep.  .  .  ," 

There  shall  be  no  faith  broken.  God  rest  you, 
merry  Gentlemen. 


HEAVY  METAL. 


CHAPTER  II 
IN  THE  TWILIGHT 


I.      HEAVY  METAL 

IT  was  still  dark  when  the  battle  cruisers  slipped 
from  their  moorings  and  began  to  feel  their  way 
towards  the  unseen  entrance  of  the  harbour.  From 
the  bridge  of  each  mass  of  towering  indeterminate 
shadows  the  stern  light  of  the  next  ahead  could  be 
discerned  dimply  through  binoculars,  and  on  those 
pin-points  of  light  they  steered.  What  the  battle 
cruiser  flagship  steered  by,  in  the  narrow  confines  of 
the  crowded  harbour  and  the  inky  darkness,  only 
the  little  knot  of  figures  on  her  forebridge  knew: 
the  admiral  and  flag  captain,  the  navigator  and  offi- 
cer-of-the-watch,  muffled  in  duffle  coats  and  moving 

41 


42  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

mysteriously  about  the  glow-worm  arc  of  light  from 
the  binnacle  and  chart-table. 

One  by  one  the  long  black  shapes  slid  through  the 
outer  defences,  ebon  shadows  in  a  world  of  shades. 
The  voices  of  the  leadsmen  in  the  chains  blended 
their  mournful  intermittent  chant  with  the  rush  of 
water  past  the  ship's  side;  but  in  the  ears  of  the 
watchful  figures  on  the  bridges  the  sound  was 
swallowed  by  the  dirge  of  the  funnel  stays  and  hal- 
liards in  the  cold  wind  heralding  the  dawn. 

The  red  and  green  lights  on  the  gate-marking  ves- 
sels winked  and  bobbed  in  the  swell  caused  by  the 
passage  of  the  grim  host.  It  passed  with  incredible 
swiftness;  and  before  the  troubled  waters  began  to 
quiet,  the  escorting  destroyers  came  pelting  up 
astern,  heralded  by  the  rush  and  rattle  of  spray- 
thrashed  steel,  funnels  glowing,  and  the  roar  of  their 
fans  pouring  out  from  the  engine-room  exhausts. 
Night  and  the  mystery  of  the  darkness  enfolded 
them.  The  gates  closed  upon  their  churning  wakes 
and  the  tumult  of  their  passing.  Dawn  glimmered 
pale  behind  the  hills  and  broadened  slowly  into  day; 
it  found  the  harbour  empty,  save  for  small  craft. 
Beyond  the  headlands,  beyond  the  mist-enshrouded 
horizon,  the  battle  cruisers  were  abroad,  unleashed. 

Once  clear  of  their  protecting  minefields,  the  bat- 
tle cruisers  moved  south  at  high  speed,  with  their 
smoke  trailing  astern  in  broad  zig-zags  across  a  grey 
sky.  At  intervals  they  altered  course  simultaneously 
and  then  swung  back  to  their  original  path,  flinging 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT  43 

the  grey  seas  asunder  from  each  gaunt,  axe-headed 
bow  as  they  turned. 

They  scarcely  resembled  ships,  in  their  remorse- 
less, purposeful  rush  under  the  lowering  sky.  The 
screening  T.B.D.'s  spread  fan-wise  on  their  flanks 
were  dwarfed  to  insignificance  beside  these  stupen- 
dous destroyers  with  the  smoke  pouring  from  their 
huge  funnels,  and  nothing  to  break  their  stark  naked- 
ness of  outline  but  the  hooded  guns.  Men  lived  on 
board  them,  it  is  true:  under  each  White  Ensign 
a  thousand  souls  laboured  out  each  one  its  insignifi- 
cant destiny.  They  were  entities  invisible  like  mites 
in  a  cheese;  but  the  ships  that  bore  them  were  in- 
struments, visible  enough,  of  the  triumphant  destiny 
of  an  empire. 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  the  battle  cruisers 
were  alone  on  that  grey  waste  of  water.  But  swift 
as  was  their  passage,  something  swifter  overtook 
them  out  of  the  north  as  the  morning  wore  on.  It 
was  the  voice  of  the  battle  fleet  moving  south  in  sup- 
port. "Speed  so-and-so,  on  such-and-such  a  course," 
flickered  the  curt  cipher  messages  through  sixty  miles 
of  space.  And  south  they  came  in  battle  array,  bat- 
tleships, light  cruisers,  and  destroyers,  ringed  by 
the  misty  horizon  of  the  North  Sea,  with  the  calling 
gulls  following  the  white  furrows  of  their  keels  like 
crows  after  the  plough. 

A  division  of  light  cruisers,  driving  through  the 
crested  seas  at  the  speed  of  a  galloping  horse,  linked 
the  battle  fleet  with  the  battle  cruisers.  Seen  from 


44  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

either  force  they  were  but  wraiths  of  smoke  on  the 
horizon:  but  ever  and  anon  a  daylight  searchlight 
winked  out  of  the  mist,  spanning  the  leagues  with 
soundless  talk. 

It  was  still  early  afternoon  when  a  trail  of  bubbles 
flickered  ahead  of  the  flagship  of  the  battle  fleet's 
lee  line.  It  crossed  at  right  angles  to  their  course, 
and  a  thousand  yards  abeam  of  the  third  ship  in  the 
line  something  silvery  broke  the  surface  in  a  cloud 
of  spray.  It  was  a  torpedo  that  had  run  its  course 
and  had  missed  the  mark.  Simultaneously,  one  of 
the  escorting  destroyers,  a  mile  abeam,  turned  like 
a  mongoose  on  a  snake,  and  circled  questing  for  a 
couple  of  minutes.  Then  suddenly  a  column  of  wa- 
ter leaped  into  the  air  astern  of  the  destroyer,  and 
the  sound  of  the  explosion  was  engulfed  by  the  great 
loneliness  of  sea  and  sky.  She  remained  circling 
while  the  battle  fleet  swept  on  with  swift,  bewilder- 
ing alterations  of  course,  and  later  another  far-off 
explosion  overtook  them. 

"Strong  smell  of  oil;  air  bubbles.  No  wreckage 
visible.  Consider  enemy  submarine  sunk.  No  sur- 
vivors," blinked  the  laconic  searchlight,  and  the 
avenger,  belching  smoke  from  four  raking  funnels, 
came  racing  up  to  her  appointed  station. 

As  the  afternoon  wore  on,  a  neutral  passenger 
ship  crossed  the  path  of  the  fleet.  She  was  steering 
a  westerly  course,  and  altered  to  pass  astern  of  the 
battle  cruisers. 

The  captain  wiped  his  glasses  and  handed  them 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT  4$ 

to  one  of  the  passengers,  an  amiable  merchant  of 
the  same  nationality  as  himself,  and  a  self-confessed 
admirer  of  all  things  British. 

"Ha!"  said  the  captain.  "You  see?  The 
clenched  fist  of  Britain!  It  is  being  pushed  under 
the  nose  of  Germany — so !"  He  laughingly  extend- 
ed a  gnarled  fist  in  the  other's  face.  The  merchant 
was  a  frequent  passenger  of  his,  and  the  sort  of  man 
(by  reason  of  his  aforesaid  proclivities)  to  appre- 
ciate the  jest.  The  merchant  stepped  back  a  pace 
rather  hurriedly:  then  he  laughed  loudly.  "Exact- 
ly I"  he  said,  "very  neat,  my  friend."  And  borrow- 
ing his  friend's  glasses  he  studied  the  far-off  tendrils 
of  smoke  in  silence  awhile. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  a  light  cruiser  altered 
course  from  the  fleet  in  the  direction  of  the  neutral 
steamer.  Then  it  was  that  the  amiable  merchant 
was  struck  by  a  sudden  recollection.  It  was  a  matter 
of  considerable  urgency  and  concerned  an  order  for 
a  large  number  of  bolts  of  calico  and  a  customer's 
credit.  So  pressing  was  the  business  that  he  ob- 
tained the  captain's  permission  to  send  a  radio  tele- 
gram to  his  firm  while  the  approaching  cruiser  was 
still  some  miles  away. 

The  message  was  duly  dispatched,  and,  with  sur- 
prising rapidity,  by  methods  with  which  this  narra- 
tive is  not  concerned  (of  which,  indeed,  the  narra- 
tor is  entirely  ignorant) ,  reached  Wilhelmshaven  by 
nightfall.  Here  four  German  battle  cruisers  were 


46  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

raising  steam  preparatory  to  carrying  out  a  bom- 
bardment at  dawn  of  a  populous  English  watering- 
place.  The  message  that  reached  them  had,  how- 
ever, nothing  to  do  with  calico  or  credit,  but  it  bade 
them  draw  fires  and  give  the  usual  leave  to  officers 
and  men;  orders  for  the  bombardment  were  can- 
celled. The  German  battle  cruisers  were  not  un- 
accustomed to  rapid  changes  of  programme  of  this 
sort,  and  they  asked  no  questions. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  following  morning,  a  British 
taxpayer  sat  down  to  breakfast  in  a  house  com- 
manding a  fine  view  of  the  sea  from  the  popular 
watering-place  already  mentioned.  It  was  a  large 
house,  and  incidentally  offered  an  admirable  target 
from  the  sea.  The  taxpayer  unfolded  his  morning 
paper,  and  took  a  sip  of  his  tea.  Then  he  put  the 
cup  down  quickly.  "You've  forgotten  the  sugar," 
he  said. 

"No,  dear,"  replied  his  wife,  "I  haven't  forgot- 
ten it,  but  there  isn't  any." 

"Eh,"  said  the  taxpayer,  "why  not?  why  the  devil 
isn't  there  any  sugar?" 

The  taxpayer's  wife  advanced  a  number  of  popu- 
lar theories  to  account  for  the  phenomenon,  while 
the  taxpayer  gloomily  stirred  his  unsweetened  tea. 

"Then  all  I  should  like  to  know,"  he  replied,  when 
she  had  finished,  "is,  what  the  blazes  is  our  Navy 
doing?" 

"I  don't  know,  dear,"  said  the  taxpayer's  wife. 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT 


II.      A   STRIKING  FORCE 


Daybreak,  drawing  back  the  dark  shroud  of  night 
from  the  face  of  the  North  Sea,  disclosed  a  British 
minelaying  submarine  making  her  way  homeward 
on  the  surface.  To  the  two  oilskin-clad  figures  on 


V 


A   STRIKING  FORCE. 


the  conning  tower,  chilled  and  streaming  wet  in  the 
cheerless  dawn,  it  also  betrayed  feathers  of  smoke 
above  the  horizon  astern.  The  submarine  promptly 
dived  to  investigate  at  closer  quarters,  and  was  re- 
warded by  the  spectacle  of  a  German  cruiser  squad- 
ron, screened  by  destroyers,  steering  a  northwesterly 
course  at  high  speed. 

The  submarine  did  not  attempt  to  attack  with  her 
torpedoes.     She  retired  instead  to  where  the  sand- 


48  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

fog  stirs  in  an  endless  ground  swell,  and  the  North 
Sea  cod  hover  about  the  wrecks  of  neutral  mer- 
chantmen. In  these  unlit  depths  she  lay  for  an 
hour,  listening  to  the  chunk  of  many  propellers  pass 
overhead  and  die  away.  She  knew  nothing  of  the 
mysterious  chain  of  events  which  sent  those  cruisers 
venturing  beyond  the  protection  of  the  far-reaching 
German  minefields.  She  was  as  ignorant  of  popular 
clamour  in  Germany  for  spectacular  naval  activity 
as  she  was  of  the  presence  of  a  large  convoy  of 
laden  freighters  a  hundred  miles  away  to  the  north- 
ward, escorted  by  destroyers  and  making  for  a  Brit- 
ish port.  These  matters  were  not  her  "pidgin."  On 
the  other  hand,  having  once  sighted  the  German 
cruisers,  she  became  very  much  concerned  with  get- 
ting the  information  through  to  quarters  where  it 
would  be  appreciated.  Accordingly,  when  the  last 
of  the  water-borne  sounds  ceased,  the  submarine 
rose  to  the  surface,  projected  a  tiny  wireless  mast 
above  the  wave-tops,  and  sent  out  the  Call  rippling 
through  space. 

It  was  addressed  to  a  certain  light  cruiser  squad- 
ron, lying  at  its  buoys  with  the  needles  of  the  pres- 
sure gauges  flickering  and  the  shells  fused  in  the 
racks  beside  each  gun,  waiting  day  and  night  in 
much  the  tense  preparedness  with  which  the  fire 
brigade  waits. 

•Within  two  hours  the  light  cruisers  were  out,  ri- 
bands of  foam  and  smoke  unreeling  astern  of  them, 
with  their  attendant  destroyers  bucketing  and  plung- 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT  49 

ing  on  either  side  of  them,  flinging  the  spray  abroad 
in  the  greeting  of  a  steep  easterly  swell.  The  last 
destroyer  swung  into  station  ere  the  line  of  mine- 
sweepers, crawling  patiently  to  and  fro  about  the 
harbour  approaches,  were  blotted  from  view  in  their 
smoke  astern.  Presently  the  harbour  itself  faded 
out  of  sight;  in  lodging,  cottage,  and  villa  the  women 
glanced  at  the  clocks  as  the  ships  went  out,  and  then 
turned  to  their  morning  tasks  and  the  counting  of 
the  slow  hours.  .  .  . 

East  into  the  sunlight  went  the  slim  grey  cruisers, 
and  then  north,  threading  their  swift  way  through 
the  half-known  menace  of  the  minefields,  altering 
course  from  time  to  time  to  give  a  wide  berth  to  the 
horned  Death  that  floated  awash  among  the  waves. 
At  intervals  the  yard-arm  of  the  leading  light  cruiser 
would  be  flecked  with  colour  as  a  signal  bellied  out 
against  the  wind,  and  each  time  speed  was  increased. 
Faster  and  faster  they  rushed  through  the  yellowish 
seas,  fans  and  turbines  humming  their  song  of  speed, 
and  the  wind  in  the  shrouds  chiming  in  on  a  higher 
note  as  if  from  an  aeolian  harp. 

The  spray  rattled  like  hail  against  the  sloping 
gun-shields  and  splinter-mats,  behind  which  men 
stood  huddled  in  little  clusters  or  leaned  peering 
ahead  through  glasses;  cinders  from  the  smoke  of 
the  next  ahead  collected  in  little  whorls  and  eddies 
or  crunched  underfoot  about  the  decks;  the  guns' 
crews  jested  among  themselves  in  low  voices,  while 
the  sight-setters  adjusted  their  head-pieces  and  the 


ISO  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

layer  of  each  slim  gun  fussed  lovingly  about  the  glit- 
tering breech  mechanism  with  a  handful  of 
waste.  .  .  . 

Then  suddenly,  above  the  thunder  of  the  waves 
and  singing  of  the  wind,  a  clear  hail  floated  aft  from 
a  look-out.  Bare  feet  thudded  on  the  planking  of 
the  signal  bridge,  bunting  whirled  amid  the  funnel 
smoke,  and  the  hum  of  men's  voices  along  the 
stripped  decks  deepened  into  a  growl. 

"Smoke  on  the  port  bow!" 

A  daylight  searchlight  chattered  suspiciously — 
paused — flashed  a  blinding  question,  and  was  silent. 

Orders  droned  down  the  voice-pipes.  Somewhere 
a  man  laughed — a  sudden  savage  laugh  of  exulta- 
tion, that  broke  a  tension  none  were  aware  of  till 
that  moment.  Then  a  fire-gong  jarred:  the  muzzle 
of  the  foremost  gun  suddenly  vomited  a  spurt  of 
flame,  and  as  the  wind  whipped  the  yellow  smoke 
into  tatters,  the  remaining  light  cruisers  opened  fire. 

Bang!  .  .  .  bang!  .  .  .  bang!  .  .  .  bang!  .  .  . 
bang! 

On  the  misty  horizon  there  were  answering  flashes, 
and  a  moment  later  came  a  succession  of  sounds  as 
of  a  child  beating  a  tray.  The  light  cruisers  wheeled 
to  the  eastward  amid  scattered  columns  of  foam 
from  falling  shells,  and  as  they  turned  to  cut  off 
the  enemy  from  his  base  the  destroyers  went  past, 
their  bows  buried  in  spray,  smoke  swallowing  the 
frayed  white  ensigns  fluttering  aft.  In  a  minute  they 
had  vanished  in  smoke,  out  of  which  guns  spat  vie- 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT  51 

iously,  leaving  a  tangle  of  little  creaming  wakes  to 
mark  the  path  of  their  headlong  onslaught. 

Neck  and  neck  raced  the  retreating  raiders  and 
the  avenging  Nemesis  from  the  east  coast  of  Britain. 
Ahead  lay  the  German  minefields  and  German  sub- 
marines and  the  tardy  support  of  the  German  High 
Seas  Fleet.  Somewhere  far  astern  a  huddle  of  nerv- 
ous merchantmen  were  being  hustled  westward  by 
their  escort,  and  midway  between  the  two  the  hostile 
destroyer  flotillas  fought  in  a  desperate  death-grap- 
ple under  the  misty  blue  sky. 

When  at  length  the  British  light  cruisers  hauled 
off  and  ceased  fire  on  the  fringe  of  the  German  mine- 
fields, the  enemy  were  hull  down  over  the  horizon, 
leaving  two  destroyers  sinking  amid  a  swirl  of  oil 
and  wreckage,  and  a  cruiser  on  her  beam  ends  ablaze 
from  bow  to  stern.  The  sea  was  dotted  with  specks 
of  forlorn  humanity  clinging  to  spars  and  rafts. 
Boats  from  the  British  destroyers  plied  to  and  fro 
among  them,  bent  on  the  quixotic  old-fashioned  task 
of  succouring  a  beaten  foe.  Those  not  actively  en- 
gaged in  this  work  of  mercy  circled  round  at  high 
speed  to  fend  off  submarine  attack;  the  light  cruis- 
ers stayed  by  to  discourage  the  advances  of  a  pair 
of  Zeppelins  which  arrived  from  the  eastward  in 
time  to  drop  bombs  on  the  would-be  rescuers  of  their 
gasping  countrymen. 

The  bowman  of  a  destroyer's  whaler  disengaged 
his  boathook  from  the  garments  of  a  water-logged 


52  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

Teuton,  grasped  his  late  enemy  by  the  collar  and 
hauled  him  spluttering  into  the  boat  with  a  single 
powerful  heave  of  his  right  arm. 

All  about  them  cutters  and  whalers  rising  and  fall- 
ing on  the  swell  were  quickly  being  laden  to  the  gun- 
wales with  scalded,  bleeding,  half-drowned  prison- 
ers. A  midshipman  in  the  stern  of  a  cutter  was 
waving  a  bedraggled  German  ensign  and  half-tear- 
fully  entreating  his  crew  to  stop  gaping  at  the  Zep- 
pelins and  attend  to  orders.  The  barking  of  the 
light  cruisers'  high-angle  guns  was  punctuated  by 
the  whinny  of  falling  bombs  and  pieces  of  shrapnel 
that  whipped  the  surface  of  the  sea  into  spurts  of 
foam.  In  the  background  the  sinking  cruiser  blazed 
sullenly,  the  shells  in  her  magazine  exploding  like 
gigantic  Chinese  crackers. 

In  the  bows  of  the  whaler  referred  to  above  the 
able  seaman  with  the  boathook  sat  regarding  the 
captive  of  his  bow  and  spear  (or  rather,  boathook). 
"  'Ere,  Tirpitz !"  he  said,  and  removing  his  cap  he 
produced  the  stump  of  a  partly  smoked  cigarette. 
The  captive  took  it  with  a  watery  smile  and  pawed 
his  rescuer's  trousers. 

"Kamarad!"  he  said. 

"Not  'arf !"  said  his  captor  appreciatively.  "Not 
'arf  you  ain't,  you son  of  a 1" 

The  second  bow,  labouring  at  his  oar,  looked  back 
over  his  shoulder. 

"  'Ush  I"  he  said  reprovingly.     "  'E  can't  under- 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT  53 

stand.   Wot's  the  use  o*  wastin'  that  on  'iw?"   He 
spat  contemptuously  over  the  gunwale. 

The  following  thoughtful  description  of  the  action 
appeared  in  the  German  wireless  communique  next 
morning : 

"Our  light  forces  in  an  enterprise  of  the  English 
coast  put  to  'flight  a  vastly  superior  strength  of  armed 
merchant  cruisers  escorted  by  destroyers.  English 
fleet  on  coming  to  the  rescue  was  compelled  to  with- 
draw,  and  our  forces  returned  to  harbour  without 
further  molestation/' 

Every  man  to  his  own  trade. 

III.      THE  LEFT   FLANK 

The  north-east  wind  carried  the  steady  grumble 
of  gunfire  across  the  sand-dunes  and  far  out  to  sea. 

The  foremost  gun's  crew  of  a  British  destroyer 
stood  huddled  in  the  lee  of  the  gunshield  with  their 
duffle  hoods  pulled  down  over  their  foreheads.  The 
sea  was  calm,  and  the  stars  overhead  shone  with 
frosty  brilliance.  A  figure  groped  its  way  forward 
with  a  bowl  of  cocoa,  and  joined  the  group  round 
the  breech  of  the  gun.  They  drank  in  turn,  grunt- 
ing as  the  warmth  penetrated  into  their  interiors.. 

The  distant  gunfire  swelled  momentarily.  Above, 
the  horizon  far  ahead  intermittent  gleams  marked 
the  activity  of  searchlight  and  star-shell. 


'54 


THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 


"Them's  our  guns,"  said  one  of  the  cocoa-drink- 
ers. He  wiped  his  mouth  on  the  sleeve  of  his  coat, 
and  stared  ahead.  It  never  seemed  to  occur  to  any 
of  them  that  they  might  equally  well  be  German  guns. 

"That's  right,"  confirmed  the  sight-setter. 
"There's  guns  going  like  that  for  'undreds  an'  'un- 


THE  LEFT  FLANK. 

dreds  of  miles.  Right  away  up  from  the  sea.  Me 
brother's  there — somewhere.  .  .  ."  For  a  moment 
they  ruminated  over  a  mental  picture  of  the  sight- 
setter's  brother,  a  mud-plastered  stoical  atom,  some- 
where along  those  hundreds  of  miles  of  wire  and 
bayonets  that  hedged  civilisation  and  posterity  from 
the  Unnamable.  "Switzerland  to  the  sea,"  said  the 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT  55 

speaker.  He  jerked  the  breech-lever  absent-minded- 
ly towards  htm,  and  closed  it  again  with  a  little  click. 

"An'  then  we  takes  on,''  said  a  loading  number. 
"Us  an'  these  'ere."  He  tapped  the  smooth  side  of 
a  lyddite  shell  lying  in  the  rack  beside  him. 

"An'  this  'ere,"  said  the  man  who  had  brought 
the  cocoa.  He  thrust  forward  the  cumbersome  hilt 
of  a  cutlass  at  his  hip.  The  starlight  gleamed  dully 
on  the  steel  guard. 

"You  won't  use  that  to-night,  my  son,"  said  the 
gunlayer.  "We  ain't  goin'  to  'ave  no  Broke  an' 
Swift  song  an'  dance  to-night."  He  stared  out  into 
the  clear  darkness.  "We  couldn't  never  git  near 
enough."  Nevertheless,  he  put  out  his  hand  in  the 
gloom  and  reassured  himself  of  the  safety  of  a  for- 
midable bar  of  iron  well  within  reach.  Once  in  the 
annals  of  this  war  had  a  British  destroyer  come  to 
grips  at  close  quarters  with  the  enemy;  thereafter 
her  crew  walked  the  earth  as  men  apart,  and  the 
darlings  of  the  high  gods. 

The  night  grew  suddenly  darker.  It  was  the  mys- 
terious hour  that  precedes  the  dawn,  when  warring 
men  and  sleeping  animals  stir  and  bethink  them  of 
the  morrow.  The  destroyer  slackened  speed  and 
turned,  the  wide  circle  of  her  wake  shimmering 
against  the  darkness  of -the  water.  As  they  turned, 
other  dark  shapes  were  visible  abeam,  moving  at 
measured  distance  from  each  other  without  a  light 
showing  or  a  sound  but  the  faint  swish  of  the  water 
past  their  sides.  The  flotilla  had  reached  the  limit 


56  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

of  its  beat,  and  swung  round  to  resume  the  unending 
patrol. 

Once  from  the  starry  sky  came  the  drone  of  a 
seaplane  moving  up  from  its  base  that  lay  to  the 
southward.  Another  followed,  another  and  anoth- 
er, skirting  the  coast  and  flying  well  out  to  sea  to 
avoid  the  searchlights  and  anti-aircraft  guns  of  the 
shore  batteries.  They  passed  invisible,  and  the 
drone  of  their  engines  died  away. 

"Our  spottin'  machines,"  said  the  sight-setter. 
"They're  going  up  to  spot  for  the  monitors  at  day- 
light." He  jerked  his  head  astern  to  the  north,  and 
yawned.  "I  reckon  I'd  sooner  Jave  this  job  than 
screenin'  monitors  wot's  bombardin'  Ostend.  I  don't 
fancy  them  1 5-inch  German  shell  droppin'  round  out 
o'  nuffink,  an'  no  chance  of  'ittin'  back." 

"They  knocks  seven-bells  outer  Ostend,  them  mon- 
itors," said  another.  "We  ain't  knockin'  'ell  out  o* 
nobody,  steamin'  up  an'  down  like  one  of  them 
women  slops  in  the  'Orseferry  Road."  The  speaker 
blinked  towards  the  east  where  the  stars  were  paling. 

"We're  all  doin'  our  bit,"  said  the  gunlayer,  "an' 
one  o'  these  nights  .  .  ."  He  shook  his  head  dark- 
ly. The  dawn  crept  into  the  sky:  the  faces  beneath 
the  duffle  hoods  grew  discernible  to  each  other,  un- 
shaven, pink-lidded,  pinched  with  cold.  Objects, 
shining  with  frozen  dew,  took  form  out  of  the  black 
void.  The  outline  of  the  bridge  above  them,  and 
the  mast  behind,  stood  out  against  the  sky;  the  head 
and  shoulders  of  the  captain,  with  his  glasses  to  his 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT  57 

eyes,  appeared  above  the  bridge  screen,  where  he 
had  been  all  night,  watchful  and  invisible.  The 
smoke  trailing  astern  blotted  out  the  rest  of  the  flo- 
tilla following  in  each  other's  wake.  Aft  along  the 
deck,  guns'  and  torpedo-tubes'  crews  began  to  move 
and  stamp  their  feet  for  warmth. 

Away  to  starboard  a  circular  object  nearly  awash 
loomed  up  and  dropped  astern.  Another  appeared 
a  few  minutes  later,  and  was  succeeded  by  a  third. 
Mile  after  mile  these  dark  shapes  slid  past,  stretch- 
ing away  to  the  horizon.  They  were  the  buoys  of 
the  Channel  barrage,  supporting  the  mined  nets 
which  are  but  a  continuation  of  four  hundred  miles 
of  barbed  wire. 

The  day  dawned  silvery  grey  and  disclosed  a  dif- 
fused activity  upon  the  face  of  the  waters.  Two 
great  hospital  ships,  screened  by  destroyers  as  a 
sinister  reminder  to  the  beholder  of  Germany's  for- 
feited honour,  slid  away  swiftly  towards  the  French 
coast.  A  ragged  line  of  coastwise  traffic,  barges  un- 
der sail,  lighters  in  tow  of  tugs,  and  deep-laden 
freighters  hugging  the  swept  channel  along  the  coast, 
appeared  as  if  by  magic  out  of  "the  bowl  of  night" ; 
from  the  direction  of  the  chalk-cliffs  came  a  division 
of  drifters  in  line  ahead.  They  passed  close  to  the 
destroyers,  and  the  figure  on  the  leading  destroyer's 
bridge  bawled  through  a  megaphone.  They  were 
curt  incoherencies  to  a  landsman — vague  references 
to  a  number  and  some  compass  bearings.  A  big  man 
on  board  the  drifter  flagship  waved  his  arm  to  in- 


'58  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

dicate  he  understood  the  message;  which  was  to  the 
effect  that  one  of  the  barrage  buoys  appeared  to  have 
dragged  a  little,  and  the  net  looked  as  if  it  was  worth 
examining. 

The  drifters  spread  out  along  the  line  of  buoys 
and  commenced  their  daily  task  of  overhauling  the 
steel  jackstays,  testing  the  circuits  of  the  mines, 
repairing  damage  caused  by  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the 
tide  and  winter  gales. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  destroyers  encountered 
their  reliefs,  transferred  the  mantle  of  responsibility 
for  the  left  flank  with  a  flutter  of  bunting  and  a  pair 
of  hand-flags,  and  returned  to  their  anchorage,  where 
they  were  greeted  by  a  peremptory  order  from  the 
signal  station  to  complete  with  oil  fuel  and  report 
when  ready  for  sea  again.  A  coastal  airship  had 
reported  an  enemy  submarine  in  the  closely  guarded 
waters  of  the  Channel,  and  along  sixty  miles  of 
watchful  coast  the  hunt  was  up. 

"My  brother  Alf,"  said  the  sight-setter  disgusted- 
ly, as  he  kicked  off  his  seaboots  and  prepared  for 
an  hour's  sleep,  "  'e  may  be  famil'r  wif  tools  wot  I 
don't  know  nothin'  about.  But  there's  one  thing 
about  'em — when  'e  lays  'em  down,  'e  bloody-well 
lays  'em  down." 

IV.      THE    HUNT 

The  Blimp  rose  from  her  moorings,  soaring  sea- 
ward, and  straightway  the  roar  of  her  propeller  cut 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT  59 

off  each  of  the  occupants  of  the  car  into  a  separate 
world  of  his  own  silence.  The  aerodrome  with  its 
orderly  row  of  hangars  dropped  away  from  under 
them  with  incredible  swiftness.  Fields  became  patch- 
work, buildings  fell  into  squares  and  lozenges  with- 
out identity.  Figures  which  a  minute  or  two  before 
had  been  noisy,  muscular,  perspiring  fellow-men 
working  on  the  ropes,  were  dots  without  motion  or 
meaning,  and  faded  to  nothingness. 

A  flock  of  seagulls  rose  from  the  face  of  the  cliff, 
whirled  beneath  them  like  autumn  leaves  and 
dropped  astern.  The  parallel  lines  of  white  that 
were  breakers  chasing  each  other  to  ruin  on  a  rock- 
bound  coast  merged  into  the  level  floor  of  the  At- 
lantic, and  presently  there  was  nothing  but  sea  and 
blue  sky  with  the  rushing  wind  between,  and  this 
glittering  triumph  of  man's  handiwork  held  sus- 
pended like  a  bauble  midway. 

The  pilot  turned  in  his  seat  and  grinned  over  his 
shoulder  at  the  observer.  The  grin  was  the  only 
visible  portion  of  his  face:  the  rest  was  hidden  by 
flying-helmet  and  goggles  and  worsted  muffler.  The 
grin  said:  "It's  a  fine  morning  and  the  old  bus  is 
running  like  a  witch.  What's  the  odds  on  sighting 
a  Fritz?" 

The  observer  laughed  and  shouted  an  inaudible 
reply  against  the  roar  of  the  wind.  He  pulled  a  slip 
of  chewing  gum  out  of  his  pocket,  bit  off  a  piece, 
and  passed  the  rest  to  the  pilot.  Then  he  adjusted 


6o 


THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 


the  focus  of  the  high-power  glasses  and  began 
methodically  quartering  out  the  immense  circular 
expanse  of  sea  beneath  them. 

Half  an  hour  had  passed  when  the  wireless  oper- 
ator in  the  rear  leaned  forward  and  tapped  him  on 
the  shoulder.  His  listeners  were  to  his  ears,  and  he 
was  scribbling  something  on  a  slate.  "S.O.S. — 


THE  HUNT. 


S.O.S." — a  bearing  from  a  distant  headland — "four- 
teen  miles — S.O.S. — S.O.S. — come    quickly — I    am 

being  shelled — S.O.S. — Subma "    The  operator 

paused  with  his  pencil  above  the  slate,  waited  a  mo- 
ment, and  handed  the  slate  forward. 

The  message,  soundless,  appealing,  that  had 
reached  them  out  of  the  blue  immensity  had  ceased 
abruptly.  The  pilot  glanced  from  the  compass  to  a 
small  square  of  chart  clamped  before  him,  and  slow- 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT  61 

ly  turned  the  wheel.  Then  he  looked  back  over  his 
shoulder  and  grinned  again. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  pilot  extended  a 
gauntletted  hand  and  pointed  to  the  rim  of  the  hori- 
zon. A  faint  smudge  of  smoke  darkened  into  a  trail- 
ing cloud,  and  presently  they  saw  ahead  of  it  the 
forepart  of  a  ship,  driving  through  the  water  at  a 
speed  which  clove  a  white,  irregular  furrow  across 
the  surface  of  the  sea.  She  was  swerving  from  side 
to  side  like  a  hunted  buck,  and  as  the  dirigible  dipped 
her  nose  and  the  hum  of  the  wind  redoubled  to  a 
roar  in  the  ears  of  the  crew,  they  saw  away  to  the 
west  a  tiny  cigar-shaped  object.  At  intervals  a  spurt 
of  flame  shot  from  it,  and  a  little  pale  mushroom- 
shaped  cloud  appeared  above  the  steamer  as  the 
shrapnel  burst. 

The  Blimp  swooped  at  eighty  miles  an  hour  upon 
that  cigar-shaped  object.  The  observer  braced  his 
feet  and  grasped  the  bomb  release  lever,  his  jaws 
still  moving  about  the  piece  of  chewing-gum.  The 
sea,  flecked  with  little  waves,  rushed  up  to  greet 
them.  They  had  a  glimpse  of  the  submarine's  crew 
tumbling  pell-mell  for  the  conning-tower  hatchway, 
of  the  wicked  gun  abandoned  forward  still  trained 
on  the  fleeing  merchantman.  The  next  instant  the 
quarry  had  shot  beneath  them.  A  sharp  concussion 
of  the  air  beat  upon  the  fragile  car  and  body  of  the 
airship  as  her  nose  was  flung  up  and  round.  The 
dirigible's  bomb  had  burst  right  forward  on  the 


62  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

pointed  bows,  and  the  submarine  was  diving  in  a 
confused  circle  of  broken  water  and  spray. 

The  Blimp  turned  to  drop  another  bomb  ahead 
of  the  rapidly  vanishing  wake,  and  then  marked  the 
spot  with  a  calcium  flare,  while  the  wireless  operator 
jiggled  a  far-flung  "Tally  ho  1"  on  the  sounding-key 
of  his  apparatus. 

The  tramp  disappeared  below  the  horizon,  and 
they  caught  disjointed  scraps  of  her  breathless  tale 
while  they  circled  in  wide  spirals  above  the  watery 
arena. 

Three  motor  launches  were  the  first  upon  the 
scene,  each  with  a  slim  gun  in  the  bows,  and  carry- 
ing, like  hornets,  a  sting  in  their  tails.  They  were 
old  hands  at  the  game,  and  they  spread  out  on  the 
hunt  with  business-like  deliberation  under  the  direc- 
tions of  the  Blimp's  Morse  lamp.  The  captain  of 
the  inshore  boat  (he  had  been  a  stock-broker  in  an 
existence  several  aeons  gone  by)  traced  a  tar-stained 
finger  across  the  chart,  and  glanced  again  at  the  com- 
pass. "Nets — nets — nets,"  he  mumbled.  "The 
swine  probably  knows  about  those  to  the  northwest. 
.  .  .  He  daren't  go  blind  much  longer.  Ha!" 

"Feather  three  points  on  your  port  bow,"  winked 
the  Blimp.  Over  weribthe  motor  launch's  helm,  and 
the  seaward  boat  suddenly  darted  ahead  in  a  white 
cloud  of  spray.  Bang!  a  puff  of  smoke  drifted  away 
from  the  wet  muzzle  of  her  gun;  half  a  mile  ahead 
a  ricochet  flung  up  a  column  of  foam  as  the  shell 
went  sobbing  and  whimpering  into  the  blue  distance. 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT  63 

"Periscope  dipped"  waved  a  pair  of  hand-flags 
from  the  boat  that  had  fired.  And  a  moment  later, 
"Keep  out  of  my  wake!  Am  going  to  release  a 
charge." 

For  an  hour  that  relentless  blindfold  hunt  went 
forward,  punctuated  by  exploding  bombs  and  depth 
charges,  and  the  crack  of  the  launches'  guns  as  the 
periscope  of  the  submarine  rose  for  an  instant's 
glimpse  of  his  assailants  and  vanished  again.  Twice 
the  enemy  essayed  a  torpedo  counter-attack,  and 
each  time  the  trail  passed  wide.  Then,  crippled  and 
desperate,  he  doubled  on  his  tracks,  and  for  a  while 
succeeded  in  shaking  off  the  pursuit.  Nets,  as  he  knew, 
lay  ahead,  and  nets  were  death;  safety  lay  to  the 
southward  could  he  but  keep  submerged;  but  the  wa- 
ter, spurting  through  the  buckled  plating  and  rivets 
started  by  the  bursting  depth  charges,  had  mingled 
with  the  acid  in  the  batteries  and  generated  poison 
gas,  which  drove  him  to  the  surface.  Here  he 
turned,  a  couple  of  miles  astern  of  his  pursuers,  and 
manned  both  guns,  a  hunted  vermin  at  bay.  As  his 
foremost  gun  opened  fire,  a  heavy  shell  burst  a  few 
yards  abeam  of  the  submarine,  and  the  captain  of 
the  nearest  motor  launch  raised  his  glasses.  It  was 
not  a  shell  fired  from  a  motor  launch. 

"The  destroyers,"  he  said.  "Now  why  couldn't 
they  have  kept  away  till  we'd  made  a  job  of  it?"  On 
the  horizon  the  masts  and  funnels  of  a  flotilla  of 
destroyers  appeared  in  line  abreast,  approaching  at 
full  speed,  firing  as  they  came.  The  next  instant  a 


64  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

shell  from  the  submarine  burst  on  the  tiny  forecastle 
of  the  launch,  shattering  the  gun,  gun's  crew,  and 
wheelhouse.  The  coxswain  dropped  over  the 
wrecked  wheel  and  slowly  slid  to  the  deck  like  a 
marionette  suddenly  deprived  of  animation.  The 
lieutenant  R.N.V.R.  who  had  once  been  a  stock- 
broker stood  upright  for  an  instant  with  his  hands 
to  his  throat  as  if  trying  to  stem  the  red  torrent 
spurting  through  his  fingers,  and  then  pitched  brok- 
enly beside  the  coxswain. 

The  captain  of  the  submarine  counted  the  ap- 
proaching destroyers,  opened  the  seacock  to  speed 
the  flooding  of  his  doomed  craft,  gave  a  swift  glance 
overhead  at  the  Blimp  swooping  towards  them  for 
the  coup-de-grace,  and  ordered  Cease  Fire.  Then 
he  waved  his  hands  in  token  of  surrender. 

v.-  OVERDUE 

The  thin  light  of  a  sickle  moon  tipped  the  crest 
of  each  swift-running  sea  with  silver.  The  rest  was 
a  purple  blackness,  through  which  the  north  wind 
slashed  like  a  knife,  and  the  sound  of  surf  on  a  dis- 
tant shoal  was  carried  moaning.  At  intervals  a  bank 
of  racing  clouds  trailed  across  the  face  of  the  moon, 
and  then  all  was  inky  dark  for  a  while. 

It  was  during  one  of  these  periods  of  obliteration 
of  all  things  visible  that  a  slender,  perpendicular 
object  rose  above  the  surface  of  the  sea.  Gradually 
the  dim  light  waxed  again:  a  wave,  cloven  in  its 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT 


OVERDUE. 


path,     passed 
hissing  on  either 
side  in  a  trail  of 
spray,    and   the 
object       slowly 
projected     until 
it     topped     the 
highest  wave.  Present- 
ly about  its  base  a  con- 
vulsive disturbance  in 
the    water    was     fol- 
lowed by  the  appear- 
ance    of     a     conical 
shape,    a   solid  black- 
ness      against       the 
streaked     glimmering 
obscurity  of  the  water 
breaking      all      about 
its  sides  and   stream- 
ing in  cascades   from 


66  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

the  flat  railed-in  top.  A  hatchway  opened,  and  two 
figures  crawled  out,  clinging  to  the  rail  of  their  sway- 
ing foothold  while  the  full  force  of  the  wind  clawed 
and  battered  at  their  forms.  They  maintained  a 
terse  conversation  by  dint  of  shouting  in  turn  with 
their  lips  to  each  other's  ears,  while  the  conning- 
tower  of  the  submarine  on  which  they  stood  moved 
forward  in  the  teeth  of  the  elements. 

For  half  an  hour  they  went  plunging  and  lurch- 
ing onwards,  clinging  with  numbed  hands  to  the  rail 
as  a  green  sea  swept  about  their  legs,  wiping  the  half- 
frozen  spray  from  their  eyes  to  search  the  darkness 
ahead  with  night-glasses.  Then  one  pointed  away 
on  the  bow. 

"How's  that?"  he  bawled.  A  point  on  the  bow 
something  dark  tumbled  amid  the  waves  and  flying 
spindrift.  The  other  stared  a  moment,  shouted  an 
order  to  the  invisible  helmsman  through  a  voice-pipe, 
and  the  wind  that  had  hitherto  been  in  their  stream- 
ing eyes  smote  and  buffeted  them  on  the  left  cheek. 
A  scurry  of  sleet  whirled  momentarily  about  them, 
blotting  out  the  half-glimpsed  buoy;  the  taller  of  the 
two  figures  put  out  an  arm  and  smote  his  companion 
on  the  back.  They  had  made  that  buoy  at  dawn  the 
previous  day,  and  then,  according  to  the  custom  of 
British  submarines  in  enemy  waters,  submerged  till 
nightfall.  Now,  despite  the  set  of  the  tides  and 
currents  and  the  darkness,  they  had  found  it  again, 
and  with  it  their  bearings  for  the  desperate  journey 
that  lay  ahead. 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT  67 

For  two  hours  they  groped  their  way  onwards 
through  what  would  have  been  unfathomable  mys- 
teries to  a  landsman.  Compass,  chart,  and  leadline 
played  their  part:  but  not  even  these,  coupled  with 
the  stoutest  heart  that  ever  beat,  avail  against  un- 
known minefield  and  watchful  patrols.  Thrice  the 
two  alert,  oilskin-clothed  figures  dived  through  the 
hatchway  into  the  interior  of  the  submarine,  and  the 
platform  on  which  they  had  been  standing  vanished 
eerily  beneath  the  surface  as  a  string  of  long,  dark 
shapes  went  by  with  a  throb  of  unseen  propellers. 
Once  when  thus  submerged  an  unknown  object  grat- 
ed past  the  thin  shell  with  a  harsh  metallic  jar,  and 
passed  astern  in  silence.  Then  it  was  that  the  cap- 
tain of  the  submarine  removed  his  cap,  passing  his 
sleeve  quickly  across  his  damp  forehead,  and  the 
gesture  was  doubtless  accepted  where  all  prayers  of 
gratitude  find  their  way. 

The  first  gleam  of  dawn,  however,  found  no  sub- 
marine on  the  surface.  It  showed  a  business-like  flo- 
tilla of  destroyers  on  their  beat,  and  a  long  line  of 
net  drifters  at  anchor  in  the  far  distance  amid  sand- 
banks. An  armed  trawler  with  rust-streaked  sides 
and  a  gun  forward  was  making  her  way  through  the 
cold,  grey  seas  in  the  direction  of  the  drifters;  a 
hoist  of  gay-coloured  signal  flags  flew  from  her 
stump  of  a  mast,  and  at  the  peak  a  tattered  German 
ensign.  The  crew  were  clustered  for  warmth  in  the 
lee  of  the  engine-room  casing,  their  collars  turned  up 
above  their  ears,  and  their  hands  deep  in  their 


6&  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

pockets.  They  were  staring  ahead  intently  at  the 
line  of  nets  guarding  the  entrance  to  the  harbour 
they  were  about  to  enter.  None  noticed  a  black 
speck  that  peeped  intermittently  out  of  their  tum- 
bling wake  thirty  yards  astern,  and  followed  them 
up  the  channel.  Three  or  four  fathoms  beneath 
that  questioning  speck,  in  an  electric-lit  glittering 
steel  cylinder,  a  young  man  stood  peering  into  the 
lense  of  a  high-power  periscope,  his  right  hand  rest- 
ing on  a  lever.  He  spoke  in  a  dull  monotone,  with 
long  intervals  of  silence;  and  throughout  the  length 
of  that  cylinder,  beside  valve  and  dial  and  lever,  a 
score  of  pairs  of  eyes  watched  him  steadfastly. 

She's  given  her  funnel  a  coat  of  paint  since 
last  month  .  .  .  port  ten — steady!  steady!  .  .  . 
There's  the  gate  vessel  moving.  .  .  .  The  skipper 
is  waving  to  hurry  him  up.  ...  Wants  his  break- 
fast, I  suppose.  .  .  .  That  must  be  the  big  crane  in 
the  dockyard.  .  .  .  There  are  flags  hung  about 
everywhere.  .  .  .  Starboard  a  touch.  .  .  .  It's  get- 
ting devilish  light.  .  .  .  There's  something  that 
looks  like  a  battle-cruiser  alongside.  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  then  the  figure  manip- 
ulating the  periscope  suddenly  stood  upright. 

"We're  through,"  he  said  quietly.  "And  that's 
their  new  battle-cruiser." 

In  the  smoking-room  of  a  British  submarine 
depot  a  group  of  officers  sat  round  the  fire.  Now 
and  again  one  or  other  made  a  trivial  observation 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT  69 

from  behind  his  newspaper;  occasionally  one  would 
glance  swiftly  at  the  clock  and  back  to  his  paper  as 
if  half  afraid  the  glance  would  be  intercepted.  The 
hands  of  the  clock  crept  slowly  round  to  noon;  the 
clock  gave  a  little  preliminary  whirr  and  then  struck 
the  hour. 

"Eight  bells,"  said  the  youngest  of  the  group  in 
a  tone  of  detachment,  as  if  the  hour  had  no  special 
significance.  A  grave-faced  lieutenant-commander 
seated  nearest  the  door  rose  slowly  to  his  feet  and 
buttoned  up  his  monkey  jacket. 

"You  goin',  Bill?"  asked  his  neighbour  in  a  low 
voice. 

The  upright  figure  nodded.  "He'd  have  done  as 
much  for  me,"  he  replied,  and  walked  quickly  out 
of  the  room. 

No  one  spoke  for  some  minutes.  Then  the  young- 
est member  lowered  the  magazine  he  was  holding  in 
front  of  him. 

"Do  they  cry?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  said  two  voices  simultaneously.  "Least," 
added  one,  "not  at  the  time." 

The  silence  settled  down  again  like  dust  that  had 
been  disturbed;  then  the  first  speaker  leaned  for- 
ward and  tapped  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe. 

"Well,"  he  observed,  "they  didn't  get  him  cheap, 
at  all  events.  I'm  open  to  a  bet  that  he  sent  a  Boche 
or  two  ahead  of  him  to  pipe  the  side." 

The  group  nodded  a  grim  assent. 

"Yes,"  said  one  who  had  not  hitherto  spoken.    "I 


70  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

reckon  you're  right.  But  we  shan't  hear  till  the  war's 
over.  They  know  how  to  keep  their  own  secrets." 
He  puffed  at  his  pipe  reflectively. 

"Anyhow,  thank  God  I'm  a  bachelor,"  he  con- 
cluded. He  lifted  a  fox-terrier's  head  between  his 
hands  and  shook  it  gently  to  and  fro.  "No  one 
need  go  and  tell  our  wives  if  we  don't  come  back — 
eh,  little  Blinks?"  The  dog  yawned,  gave  the  hands 
that  held  him  a  perfunctory  lick,  and  resumed  his 
interrupted  nap  sprawling  across  his  master's  knees. 

Among  the  letters  intercepted  shortly  afterwards 
on  their  way  to  a  South  American  State  from  Ger- 
many was  one  that  contained  the  following  signifi- 
cant passage : 

".  .  .  Yesterday  all  Kiel  was  beflagged:  we  were 
to  have  had  a  half-holiday  on  the  occasion  of  the 

trials  of  the  great  new  battle  cruiser .     Owing 

to  an  unforeseen  incident,  however,  the  trials  were 
not  completed.  Our  half-holiday  has  been  post- 
poned indefinitely.  .  .  ." 

vi.  "TUPPENCE  APIECE" 

The  herring  were  in  the  bay,  and  the  fleet  of  sail- 
ing smacks  went  trailing  out  on  the  light  wind  with 
their  eager  crews  of  old  men  and  boys  straining  at 
the  halliards  to  catch  the  last  capful  of  wind.  After 
them  came  the  armed  guard-boat  of  the  little  peace- 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT  71 

ful  fleet,  a  stout  trawler  with  a  gun  in  her  bows, 
fussing  in  the  wake  of  her  charges. 

The  skipper  of  the  guard-boat  was  at  the  wheel, 
a  tall,  gaunt  old  man  with  a  fringe  of  grey  whisker 
round  his  jaws  and  a  mouth  as  tight  as  a  scar.  He 
it  was  who  located  the  herring  and  placed  the  fleet 


"TUPPENCE  APIECE." 

across  their  path,  and  all  that  day  the  smacks  lay 
to  their  nets  till  the  porpoises  turned  inshore  and 
drove  the  silvery  host  eastward.  After  them  went 
the  smacks,  with  holds  half-full,  lured  on  by  the 
promise  of  two  quarters'  rent  as  good  as  paid.  Fi- 
nally, the  old  Trawler  Reserveman  checked  the  pur- 
suit. 

"Fish  or  no  fish,"  he  cried.     "Here  ye  bide  the 


72  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

night."  They  had  reached  the  limit  of  the  safety 
zone  in  those  waters,  and  he  rounded  up  his  flock 
like  a  sagacious  sheep-dog,  counting  the  little  craft 
carefully  ere  he  took  up  his  position  to  seaward  of 
them  for  the  night.  At  the  first  hint  of  dawn  he 
weighed  anchor  and  counted  again :  his  grim  old  face 
darkened.  He  turned  to  seaward  where  the  sky  was 
lightening  fast,  and  searched  the  mist  through 
glasses.  Three  smacks  were  discernible  some  miles 
outside  their  allotted  area.  The  burly  mate  stood 
beside  his  father,  and  watched  the  delinquents  haul- 
ing in  their  nets  with  a  speed  that  hinted  at  an  un- 
easy conscience. 

"They'm  drifted  in  a  bit  of  a  tide  rip,  mebbe?" 
he  ventured. 

The  old  man  growled  an  oath.  "Tide  rip?  Nay! 
They'm  just  daft  wi'  greed.  There's  no  wit  nor 
dacency  in  their  sodden  heads.  An'  I'll  larn  'em 
both.  By  God  I'll  larn  'em  to  disobey  my  orders." 
.  .  .  He  watched  the  far-off  craft  hoisting  sail,  with 
eyes  grey  and  cold  as  flints  beneath  the  bushy  brows. 
"Aye,"  he  said  threateningly,  "I'll  larn  ye  .  .  ." 
and  clumped  forward  to  the  wheel-house. 

The  sun  had  not  yet  risen,  and  the  thin  morning 
mists  wreathed  the  face  of  the  waters.  As  the  traw- 
ler gathered  way  a  sudden  flash  of  light  blinked 
out  of  the  mist  to  the  northward.  The  report  of  a 
gun  was  followed  by  the  explosion  of  a  shell  fifty 
yards  on  the  near  side  of  the  most  distant  fishing- 
smack. 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT  73 

The  trawler  skipper  measured  the  distance  from 
the  flash  to  the  fishing  fleet,  and  thence  to  the  truants 
bowling  towards  them  on  the  morning  breeze. 

"Man  the  gun  I"  he  roared.  "Action  Stations, 
lads!"  He  picked  up  a  megaphone  and  bellowed 
through  it  in  the  direction  of  his  charges :  "Cut  your 
warps  an'  get  ter  hell  outer  this  I"  Then  he  wrenched 
the  telegraph  to  full  speed  and  put  the  wheel  over, 
heading  his  little  craft  towards  the  quarter  from 
which  the  flash  had  come.  The  gun's  crew  closed 
up  round  the  loaded  gun,  rolling  up  their  sleeves 
and  spitting  on  their  hands  as  is  the  custom  of  their 
breed  before  a  fight. 

"There's  a  submarine  yonder  in  the  mist,"  shouted 
the  skipper.  "Open  fire  directly  ye  sight  her  and 
keep  her  busy  while  the  smacks  get  away."  Astern 
of  them  the  small  craft  were  cutting  their  nets  away 
and  hoisting  sail.  Three  or  four  were  already  mak- 
ing for  safety  to  the  westward  before  the  early  morn- 
ing breeze  that  hurried  in  catspaws  over  the  sea. 

Bang! 

The  trawler  opened  fire  as  the  submarine  appeared 
ahead  like  a  long,  hump-backed  shadow  against  the 
pearly  grey  of  the  horizon.  The  breech  clanged 
open  and  the  acrid  smoke  floated  aft  as  they  re- 
loaded. 

"Rapid  fire !"  shouted  the  skipper.  Shells  were 
bursting  all  about  the  fleeing  smacks.  "Give  'em 
hell,  lads.  Her've  got  two  guns  an'  us  but  the  one. 
.  .  ."  He  glanced  back  over  his  shoulder  at  the  lit- 


74  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

tie  craft  he  was  trying  to  save,  and  then  bent  to  the 
voice-pipe.  "Every  ounce  o'  steam,  Luther.  Her'll 
try  to  haul  off  an'  out-range  my  little  small  gun." 

Smoke  poured  from  the  gaily-painted  funnel;  the 
"little  small  gun"  barked  and  barked  again,  and  one 
after  the  other  the  empty  cylinders  went  clattering 
into  the  scuppers.  A  shell  struck  the  trawler  some- 
where in  the  region  of  the  mizzen  mast,  and  sent 
the  splinters  flying.  A  minute  later  another  exploded 
off  the  port  bow,  flinging  the  water  in  sheets  over 
the  gun's  crew.  The  sight-setter  slid  into  a  sitting 
position,  his  back  against  the  pedestal  of  the  gun- 
mounting,  and  his  head  lolling  on  his  shoulder.  They 
had  drawn  the  enemy's  fire  at  last,  and  every  minute 
gave  the  smacks  a  better  chance.  Shell  after  shell 
struck  the  little  craft  as  she  blundered  gallantly  on. 
The  stern  was  alight:  the  splintered  foremast  lay 
across  a  funnel  riddled  like  a  pepper-pot.  The  traw- 
ler's boy — a  shock-headed  child  of  fourteen  who  had 
been  passing  up  ammunition  to  the  gun — leaned 
whimpering  against  the  engine-room  casing,  nursing 
a  blood-sodden  jacket  wrapped  about  his  forearm. 

The  mate  was  at  the  gun,  round  which  three  of  the 
crew  lay.  One  had  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  and 
was  coughing  out  his  soul.  The  other  two  were  on 
their  backs  staring  at  the  sky. 

In  the  face  of  the  trawler's  fire,  the  submarine 
turned  and  drew  out  of  range,  firing  as  she  went. 
One  of  the  British  shells  had  struck  the  low-lying 
hull  astern,  and  a  thin  cloud  of  grey  smoke  ascended 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT  75 

from  the  rent.  Figures  were  visible  running  aft 
along  the  railed-in  deck,  gesticulating. 

"YeVe  hit  her,"  shouted  the  skipper  from  the 
wheel.  "Give  'em  hell,  lads " 

A  sudden  burst  of  flame  and  smoke  enveloped  the 
wheel-house,  and  the  skipper  went  hurtling  through 
the  doorway  and  pitched  with  a  thud  on  the  deck. 

The  mate  ran  aft  and  knelt  beside  him.  "Father," 
he  cried  hoarsely. 

The  inert  blue-clad  figure  raised  himself  on  his 
hands,  and  his  head  swayed  between  his  massive 
shoulders. 

"Father,"  said  the  mate  again,  and  shook  him,  as 
if  trying  to  awaken  someone  from  sleep.  "Be  ye 
hurted  terrible  bad?" 

The  grim  old  seadog  raised  his  head,  and  his  son 
saw  that  he  was  blind. 

"Pitch  the  codes  overboard,"  he  said.  "I'm  blind 
an*  stone  deaf,  an'  my  guts  are  all  abroad  under  me, 
but  ye'll  fight  the  little  gun  while  there's  a  shell  left 
aboard.  .  .  ." 

The  mate  stood  up  and  looked  aft  along  the  splin- 
tered, bloody  deck,  beyond  the  smoke  and  steam 
trailing  to  leeward. 

"The  gun's  wrecked,"  he  said  slowly,  as  if  speak- 
ing to  himself.  "The  little  smacks  are  clear  o'  dan- 
ger. .  .  .  The  destroyers  are  comin'  up.  ...  Ye 
have  fought  a  good  fight,  father."  The  submarine 
had  ceased  fire,  and  as  he  spoke,  she  submerged  and 


7.6  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

vanished  sullenly,  like  a  wild  beast  baulked  of  its 
prey. 

An  old  woman  sat  knitting  beside  the  fire  in  the 
heart  of  a  Midland  town  next  day.  The  door  opened 
and  a  girl  came  in  quickly,  with  a  shawl  over  her 
head  and  a  basket  on  her  arm. 

"There's  a  surprise  for  supper,"  she  said. 

The  old  woman  looked  inside  the  basket.  "Her- 
rin'  1"  she  said.  "What  did  they  cost?" 

"Tuppence  apiece,"  replied  the  girl  lightly,  as  she 
hung  up  her  shawl. 

"They  was  cheap,"  said  the  old  woman  as  she  fell 
to  larding  the  frying-pan. 

But  all  things  considered,  perhaps  they  were  not 
so  very  cheap  after  all. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  NAVY-THAT-FLIES  * 

THE  Royal  Naval  Air  Service  found  itself  "over 
the  other  side"  about  the  time  that  the  shells 
of  the  British  monitors  began  feeling  for  the  hidden 
batteries  of  the  Boche  behind  the  Belgian  coast. 

"I  can't  see  where  they're  pitching,"  said  the  Navy- 
that-Floats,  referring  to  the  shells  of  the  monitors 
bursting  twelve  miles  away.  "What  about  spotting 
for  us,  old  son?" 

"That  will  I  do,"   replied  the  Navy-that-Flies. 

*The  chapter  bearing  this  title  was  written  before  the  pass- 
ing of  the  Air  Force  Act.  It  is  included  in  this  book  "without 
prejudice,"  as  the  lawyers  say. 

77 


78  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

"And  more  also.  But  I  shall  have  to  wear  khaki,  be- 
cause it's  done,  out  here;  by  everybody  apparently. 
Even  the  newspaper  reporters  wear  khaki.  Also  I 
must  have  the  right  machines  and  lots  of  'em." 

"Wear  anything  you  like,"  replied  the  Navy-that- 
Floats,  "as  long  as  you  can  help  us  to  hit  these  shore 
batteries.  Only — because  you  wear  khaki  and  see 
life,  don't  forget  you're  still  the  same  old  Navy  as  it 
was  in  the  beginning,  is  now,  and  ever  shall  be." 

The  Navy-that-Flies  added  "Amen,"  and  said  that 
it  wouldn't  forget.  It  garbed  itself  in  khaki,  but  re- 
tained the  ring  and  curl  on  the  sleeve,  and  the  naval 
cap  (with  the  eagle's  wings  in  place  of  the  crown 
and  anchor  in  the  badge),  plus  a  khaki  cap-cover. 
Wherever  its  squadrons  were  based  they  rigged  a 
flagstaff  and  flew  the  White  Ensign  at  the  peak.  They 
erected  wooden  huts  and  painted  them  service  grey, 
labelling  them  "Mess-deck,"  "Wardroom,"  "Gun- 
room," etc.,  as  the  case  might  be. 

They  divided  the  flights  into  port  and  starboard 
watches,  and  solemnly  asked  leave  to  "go  ashore" 
for  recreation.  Those  who  strayed  from  the  same 
stern  paths  of  discipline  suffered  the  same  punish- 
ments as  the  Navy-that-Floats.  And  at  the  conclusion 
of  each  day's  work  the  wardroom  dined,  and  drank 
to  their  King,  sitting,  according  to  the  custom  and 
tradition  of  the  naval  service. 

They  filled  in  shell-holes  and  levelled  the  ground 
for  aerodromes,  they  ran  up  hangars  and  excavated 
dug-outs — whither  they  retired  in  a  strong,  silent 


THE  NAVY-THAT-FLIES  79 

rush  (the  expression  is  theirs) ,  when  the  apprehen- 
sive Boche  attempted  to  curtail  their  activity  with 
b6mbs. 

And  by  degrees  the  right  machines  came  along. 
The  Navy-that-Flies  swung  itself  into  them  critically, 
flung  them  about  in  the  air  three  miles  high,  testing 
and  measuring  their  capabilities.  Then  they  fought 
them,  crashed  them,  improved  on  them  till  they  were 
righter  still,  and  finally  proceeded  (to  quote  another 
of  their  expressions)  to  uput  the  wind  up  Old  Man 
Boche"  in  a  way  that  helped  the  Navy-that-Floats 
enormously. 

But  apart  from  spotting  duties,  which  were  neces- 
sarily intermittent,  the  R.N.A.S.  undertook  a  photo- 
graphic reconnaissance  of  the  entire  Belgian  coast 
from  Nieuport  to  the  Dutch  frontier.  The  work  in 
progress  at  Ostend  and  Zeebrugge,  the  activities  of 
submarines  and  destroyers  inside  the  basins;  locks, 
quays,  and  gun-emplacements,  and  the  results  of 
bombs  dropped  thereon  the  night  before,  were  all 
faithfully  recorded  by  these  aerial  cameras.  The 
negatives  were  developed  and  printed,  the  resultant 
bird-pictures  enlarged,  studied  through  stereoscopic 
lenses,  and  finally  given  to  the  monitors  ufor  infor- 
mation and  guidance."  Since  it  is  not  given  to  every- 
one to  recognise  the  entrance  to  a  dug-out  or  a  group 
of  searchlights  as  they  appear  from  a  height  of  20,- 
ooo  feet,  the  photographs  were  embellished  with  ex- 
planatory notes  for  the  benefit  of  anyone  unaccus- 
tomed to  such  unfamiliar  aspects  of  creation. 


8o  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

The  Germans  claim  to  be  a  modest  people.  They 
were  as  busy  as  beavers,  and  they  resented  these  im- 
portunate photographers  with  all  the  fervour  that 
springs  from  true  modesty.  Their  anti-aircraft  guns 
plastered  the  intruders  with  bursting  shrapnel,  and 
from  every  coast  aerodrome  Boche  machines  rose 
like  a  cloud  of  angry  hornets  to  give  battle.  Yet  day 
after  day  fresh  plates  find  their  way  to  the  develop- 
ing trays,  and  a  comparison  between  the  official  re- 
ports of  the  flight — couched  in  a  laconic  terseness  of 
phrase  that  is  good  to  read — and  the  amazing  re- 
sults obtained  gives  perhaps  the  truest  measure  of 
the  work  performed  by  these  very  gallant  gentlemen. 

Not  a  spadeful  of  earth  can  be  turned  over,  nor 
a  trowel  of  cement  added  to  a  bastion  along  the 
coast,  but  a  note  appears  a  day  or  two  later  upon 
the  long  chart  which  adorns  the  record  office  of  this 
particular  squadron.  A  crumpled  escorting  machine 
may  have  come  down  out  of  the  clouds,  eddying  like 
a  withered  leaf,  to  crash  somewhere  behind  the  Ger- 
man line ;  there  may  be  somewhere  near  the  shore  a 
broken  boy  in  goggles  and  leather  lying  amid  the 
wreckage  of  his  last  flight.  Such  is  the  price  paid 
for  a  few  more  dots  added  in  red  ink  to  a  couple  of 
feet  of  chart.  But  as  long  as  the  photographic  ma- 
chine returns  with  the  camera  intact,  the  price  is  paid 
ungrudgingly. 

The  work  of  these  photographic  recorders,  pilot 
and  observer  alike,  differs  from  all  other  forms  of 
war  flying.  Their  sole  duty  is  to  take  photographs, 


THE  NAVY-THAT-FLIES  81 

not  haphazard,  but  of  a  given  objective.  This  neces- 
sitates steering  a  perfectly  steady  course  regardless 
of  all  distractions  such  as  bursting  "Archies"  and 
angry  "Albatross"  fighters.  They  leave  the  fighting 
to  their  escorts,  and  their  fate  to  Providence.  The 
observer,  peering  earthwards  through  his  view-finder, 
steers  the  pilot  by  means  of  reins  until  he  sights  the 
line  on  which  the  desired  series  of  photographs  are 
to  be  taken :  once  over  this,  the  pilot  flies  the  machine 
on  an  undeviating  course,  and  the  observer  proceeds 
to  take  photographs.  When  all  the  plates  have  been 
exposed,  they  turn  round  and  return  home  with  what 
remain  of  the  escort.  On  occasions  the  escort  have 
vanished,  either  earthwards  or  in  savage  pursuit  of 
resentful  though  faint-hearted  Bodies;  this  is  when 
the  homing  photographers7  moments  are  apt  to  be- 
come crowded  with  incident. 

One  such  adventure  deserves  to  be  recorded.  It 
happened  about  12,000  above  mother-earth:  the  offi- 
cial reports,  typed  in  triplicate,  covered  some  dozen 
lines ;  the  actual  events,  an  equal  number  of  minutes ; 
but  the  story  is  one  that  should  live  through  eternity. 

"While  exposing  six  plates"  (says  the  official  re- 
port of  this  youthful  Recording  Angel)  "observed 
five  H.A.'s  cruising."  ("H.A."  stands  for  Hostile 
Aeroplane.)  "Not  having  seen  escort  since  turning 
inland,  pilot  prepared  to  return.  Enemy  separated, 
one  taking  up  position  above  tail  and  one  ahead. 
The  other  three  glided  towards  us  on  port  side"  (ob- 
serve the  Navy  speaking) ,  "firing  as  they  came. 


82  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

"The  two  diving  machines  fired  over  one  hundred 
rounds,  hitting  pilot  in  shoulder/'  As  a  matter  of 
sober  fact,  the  bullet  entered  his  shoulder  from  above 
and  behind,  breaking  his  left  collar  bone,  and 
emerged  just  above  his  heart,  tearing  a  jagged  rent 
down  his  breast.  Both  his  feet,  furthermore,  pierced 
by  bullets,  but  the  observer  was  not  concerned  with 
petty  detail. 

"Observer  held  fire  until  H.A.  diving  on  tail  was 
within  five  yards." 

Here  it  might  be  mentioned  that  the  machines 
were  hurtling  through  space  at  a  speed  in  the  region 
of  one  hundred  miles  an  hour.  The  pilot  of  the 
"H.A.,"  having  swooped  to  within  speaking  distance, 
pushed  up  his  goggles  and  laughed  triumphantly  as 
he  took  his  sight  for  the  shot  that  was  to  end  the 
fight.  But  the  observer  had  his  own  idea  of  how 
the  fight  should  end. 

"Then  shot  one  tray  into  pilot's  face,"  he  says, 
with  curt  relish,  and  wratched  him  stall,  sideslip,  and 
go  spinning  earthward  in  a  trail  of  smoke. 

He  turned  his  attention  to  his  own  pilot.  The 
British  machine  was  barely  under  control,  but  as  the 
observer  rose  in  his  seat  to  investigate,  the  foremost 
gun  fired,  and  the  aggressor  ahead  went  out  of  con- 
trol and  dived  nose-first  in  helpless  spirals.  Sus- 
pecting that  his  mate  was  badly  wounded  in  spite 
of  this  achievement,  the  observer  swung  one  leg  over 
the  side  of  the  fusilage  and  climbed  on  to  the  wing 
— figure  for  a  minute  the  air  pressure  on  his  body 


THE  NAVY-THAT-FLIES  83 

during  this  gymnastic  feat — until  he  was  beside  the 
pilot.  Faint  and  drenched  with  blood,  the  latter  had 
nevertheless  got  his  machine  back  into  complete  con- 
trol. 

"Get  back,  you  ass,"  he  said,  through  white  lips, 
in  response  to  inquiries  as  to  how  he  felt.  The  ass 
got  back  the  way  he  came,  and  looked  round  for  the 
remainder  of  the  "H.A.'s."  These,  however,  ap- 
peared to  have  lost  stomach  for  further  fighting,  and 
fled.  The  riddled  machine  returned  home  at  one 
hundred  knots,  while  the  observer,  having  nothing 
better  to  do,  continued  to  take  photographs.  "The 
pilot,  though  wounded,  made  a  perfect  landing." 
Thus  the  report  concludes. 

The  Navy- that- Flies  had  been  in  France  some  time 
before  the  Army  heard  very  much  about  its  doings. 
This  was  not  so  much  the  fault  of  the  Army  as  the 
outcome  of  the  taciturn  silence  in  which  the  Navy- 
that-Flies  set  to  work.  It  had  been  bidden  to  ob- 
serve the  traditions  of  the  silent  Navy,  and  it  ob- 
served them,  forbearing  even  to  publish  the  number 
of  Boche  machines  it  accounted  for  day  by  day. 

But  there  came  a  time  when  its  light  could  no 
longer  be  hid  under  a  bushel.  "Hullo,"  said  the 
generals  and  others  concerned  with  the  affairs  of  the 
entrenched  Army,  speaking  among  themselves,  "what 
about  it?"  They  consulted  the  Army-that-Flies. 

Now  the  Army-that-Flies  had  been  confronted  in 
the  early  days  of  the  war  with  perhaps  the  toughest 
proposition  that  was  ever  faced  by  mortals  of  even 


84  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

their  imperturbable  courage.  In  numerical  inferior- 
ity to  the  enemy  it  had  been  called  upon  to  maintain 
a  ceaseless  photographic  reconnaissance  far  behind 
the  enemy's  trenches;  to  spot  for  the  guns  of  the 
Army  along  a  suddenly  extended  front:  to  "keep  the 
wind  up"  the  Boche  so  that  for  every  ten  of  our 
machines  that  crossed  the  German  lines,  barely  one 
of  his  would  dare  to  cross  ours.  This  is  called  aerial 
supremacy,  and  they  established  and  maintained  it 
with  fewer  and  worse  machines  than  they  care  to  talk 
about  to-day. 

"Of  course  we  know  all  about  these  naval  John- 
nies," said  the  Army-that-Flies.  "They'd  steal  grey 
paint  from  their  dying  grandmothers,  and  they  fear 
nothing  in  the  heavens  above,  nor  the  earth  beneath, 
nor  in  the  waters  under  the  earth.  They  are  com- 
plaining that  things  are  getting  a  bit  dull  along  the 
coast.  .  .  .  We  might  show  them  a  thing  or  two  if 
they  cared  to  join  up  with  us  for  a  while." 

"Let's  ask  them,"  said  the  Army. 

So  the  Navy-that-Flies  was  invited  "to  co-operate 
with  the  Royal  Flying  Corps  on  such  portions  of  the 
line  where  its  experience  of  escort  work  and  offen- 
sive patrols  would  prove  of  the  greatest  value."  Or 
words  to  that  effect. 

The  Navy-that-Flies  accepted  the  invitation  with 
suppressed  exultation,  and  detailed  certain  squadrons 
of  fighters.  It  admits  having  selected  picked  pilots, 
because  there  was  the  credit  of  the  old  Navy  to  con- 
sider. Each  squadron  was  entrusted  to  the  care  of 


THE  NAVY-THAT-FLIES  85 

a  seasoned  veteran  of  fully  twenty-five  summers,  and 
of  the  flight  leaders  there  was  one  that  had  even 
turned  twenty-one.  In  short  the  Navy-that-Flies 
was  sending  of  its  best;  and  its  worst  was  very  good 
indeed. 

They  flew  away  from  the  coast  and  the  sea,  and 
their  motor  transport  rumbled  through  the  empty 
plains  of  France,  till  they  closed  upon  the  fringe  of 
the  entrenched  army.  Here  perched  above  the  sur- 
rounding country  on  some  plateau  or  hill-side,  with 
the  ceaseless  murmur  of  the  guns  in  their  ears,  each 
of  the  squadrons  rigged  its  flagstaff  and  hoisted  the 
White  Ensign,  set  up  the  grey-painted  huts  and  the 
ship's  bell  that  divided  the  day  into  ship-watches, 
slung  their  hammocks,  and  announced  that  they  were 
ready  to  "co-operate"  with  anybody  or  anything. 

The  Army-that-Flies  laughed  at  the  ship's  bell  and 
the  rest  of  the  naval  shibboleth,  but  it  took  the  visit- 
ors to  its  heart.  With  hands  deep  in  the  pockets  of 
its  "slacks"  and  pipe  in  mouth  it  came  over  and  ex- 
amined the  fighting  machines  of  the  Navy-that-Flies 
and  the  "doo-hickies"  thereof,  and  it  said  things  un- 
der its  breath. 

The  Navy-that-Flies  did  not  waste  much  time  look- 
ing about  it.  One  fire-eater  setting  off  to  explore  the 
country  some  thirty  miles  behind  the  German  lines 
came  upon  a  school  of  "Quirks."  Quirks,  it  may  be 
explained  for  the  benefit  of  bipeds,  are  young  Boche 
aviators  in  an  embryonic  stage.  From  the  conven- 
ient ambush  of  a  cloud  he  watched  their  antics  for 


86  THE  NAVY  ETERNAE 

a  while,  as  they  flopped  about  above  their  aerodrome; 
and  then,  descending  like  a  thunderbolt,  he  tumbled 
three  over,  scattered  the  remainder  and  returned  to 
make  his  report.  The  squadron  listened  gravely  to 
the  story  and  concluded  that  the  Golden  Age  had 
dawned. 

But  sterner  work  lay  ahead,  and  a  fair  sample  of 
It  is  contained  in  the  report  of  another  young  gentle- 
man who  went  scouting  singlehanded  over  the  Ger- 
man lines  what  time  the  "gentlemen  of  England" 
were,  if  not  abed,  cracking  the  first  of  their  breakfast 
eggs. 

He  was  attacked  by  two  single-seated  "Albatross" 
machines  and  a  Halberstadt  fighter.  Into  the  engine 
of  the  latter  he  emptied  a  tray  of  cartridges,  with 
the  result  that  it  immediately  went  spinning  down; 
to  make  assurance  doubly  sure  he  fired  another  fifty 
rounds  into  the  whirling  wreck  as  it  fell. 

By  this  time  a  veritable  hornet's  nest  appears  to 
have  risen  about  his  ears;  three  more  "Albatross" 
machines  whirred  to  the  attack,  and  in  his  subse- 
quent report  he  notes  with  artistic  enjoyment  that 
the  head  of  one  pilot  precisely  filled  the  ring  of  his 
sight.  This  eye  for  detail  enabled  him  to  recall  the 
fact  that  he  actually  saw  three  bullets  strike  the 
pilot's  head,  with  the  not  surprising  result  that  the 
would-be-avenger  heeled  over  and  sped  to  the  ground. 

By  this  time  he  had  been  driven  down  to  a  height 
of  200  feet  above  German-occupied  territory,  and, 


THE  NAVY-THAT-FLIES  87 

having  lost  sight  of  the  remainder  of  his  aggressors, 
he  decided  to  return  home  at  that  height. 

As  was  to  be  expected,  his  adventures  were  by  no 
means  terminated  by  this  decision.  An  astonished 
company  of  German  cavalry  drew  rein  and  peppered 
him  with  rifle-shots  as  he  whisked  over  the  tops  of 
their  lances.  Five  minutes  later  another  "Alba- 
tross" attacked  him. 

He  rocked  the  machine  in  giddy  sweeps  until 
within  fifty  yards  of  his  opponent,  and  side-looped 
over  him  (this,  remember,  at  200  feet  from  the 
ground) ,  fired  a  short  burst  and  drove  the  Hun  off 
for  a  moment  while  he  regained  equilibrium.  Then 
once  more  the  enemy  swooped  upon  him. 

From  this  point  onwards  the  reader  may  be 
warned  against  vertigo.  The  pilot's  own  version,  the 
bald  official  report  of  the  affair,  requires  no  embel- 
lishment or  comment,  though  the  latter  is  not  easy 
to  suppress. 

"These  operations,"  he  states,  "were  repeated 
several  times  with  a  slight  variation  in  the  way  I 
looped  over  him  (flying  against  a  head  wind) .  When 
he  was  about  150  yards  behind  me,  I  looped  straight 
over  him,  and  coming  out  of  the  loop  dived  at  him 
and  fired  a  good  long  burst.  I  saw  nearly  all  the 
bullets  go  into  the  pilot's  back,  just  on  the  edge  of 
the  cockpit.  He  immediately  dived  straight  into  the 
ground. 

"I  then  went  over  the  German  trenches  filled  with 
soldiers,  and  was  fired  on  by  machine  guns,  rifles, 


88  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

and  small  field  guns,  in  or  out"  (Ye  Gods  and  Little 
Fishes!)  "of  range.  There  were  many  shells  burst- 
ing in  and  about  the  German  trenches." 

The  report  concluded  with  estimates  of  the 
strength  of  various  bodies  of  infantry  and  cavalry, 
movements  of  convoy  and  artillery  noticed  during  the 
intervals  between  aerial  somersaults.  The  pilot 
landed  at  the  first  aerodrome  he  saw — adding,  in 
explanation  of  such  an  irregular  proceeding,  that  his 
machine  was  badly  shot  about. 

The  squadrons  co-operating  with  the  R.F.C.  com- 
menced by  faithfully  recording  all  aerial  combats  in 
which  their  machines  were  engaged.  But  after  a 
while  such  events  became  too  commonplace  to  chron- 
icle. They  fought  from  dawn  to  dusk,  generally  a 
day's  journey  for  a  horse  behind  the  German  lines. 
They  fought  at  altitudes  at  which  in  spring  a  ther- 
mometer registed  50°  of  frost,  returning  with  petrol 
tanks  frozen,  and  hands  and  feet  and  ears  swollen 
by  frost-nip.  One  squadron  had  a  hundred  decisive 
fights  in  a  month  (omitting  skirmishes),  and  ac- 
counted for  twenty-five  Boche  machines.  Its  log  (un- 
officially termed  "Game-book")  contained  such  en- 
tries as  the  following:  "Four  machines  went  up :  man- 
aged to  bag  five  Huns  before  breakfast." 

For  the  first  time  in  their  lives  the  pilots  got  all 
the  fighting  they  wanted,  and  revelled  in  it  glutton- 
ously. They  grew  fine-drawn,  with  the  accentuated 
brilliancy  of  eye  common  to  men  in  perfect  condition 
living  at  the  highest  tension.  They  met  Winged 


THE  NAVY-THAT-FLIES  89 

Death  hourly  in  the  blue  loneliness  above  the  clouds ; 
the  rustle  of  his  sable  wings  became  a  sound  familiar 
as  the  drone  of  their  own  engines,  so  that  all  terror 
of  the  Destroyer  passed  out  of  their  souls — if  indeed 
it  had  ever  entered  there. 

And  Death  in  his  turn  grew  merciful,  amazed.  At 
least  this  is  the  only  explanation  to  offer  for  certain 
tales  that  are  told  along  the  Front,  where  the  White 
Ensign  flies. 

But  hear  for  yourselves  and  judge. 

A  Naval  pilot — a  Canadian,  by  the  way — attacked 
a  single-seater  "Albatross"  scout  at  8,000  feet  above 
the  German  lines.  He  disposed  of  him  after  a  short 
engagement,  and  was  then  attacked  by  seven  others 
who  drove  him  down  to  3,000  feet  and  shot  his  ma- 
chine to  pieces.  He  plunged  to  the  ground  and 
crashed  amid  the  wreck  of  his  machine  a  couple  of 
hundred  yards  behind  the  Canadian  lines,  breaking  a 
leg  and  dislocating  a  shoulder.  A  furious  bombard- 
ment from  German  heavy  artillery  was  in  progress 
at  the  time,  and  he  crawled  into  a  shell-hole,  where 
he  remained  from  9  a.m.  until  4  p.m.  Fire  then 
having  slackened,  a  party  from  the  trenches  went 
in  search  of  his  body  with  a  view  to  burying  it,  and 
found  him  conscious  and  cheerful,  though  very 
thirsty. 

The  Navy-that-Flies  is  witness  that  I  lie  not. 

As  far  as  bombing  operations  are  concerned,  the 
Navy-that-Flies  confines  its  attentions  principally  to 
the  German  bases  along  the  Belgian  coast,  and  any 


90  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

lurking  submarines  or  vagrant  destroyers  observed 
in  the  vicinity.  Bombing  is  carried  out  by  both  aero- 
planes and  seaplanes,  and  differs  from  other  forms 
of  war  flying  in  that  it  is  principally  performed  at 
night. 

The  function  of  the  bombing  machine  is  to  reach 
its  given  objective  in  as  short  a  time  as  possible, 
without  provoking  more  "scraps"  on  the  way  than 
are  inevitable,  to  "deliver  the  goods,"  and,  if  not 
brought  down  by  anti-aircraft  fire,  to  return  with  all 
speed.  They  are  not  primarily  fighters,  and  when 
laden  with  bombs  are  not  theoretically  a  match  for 
a  hostile  fighting  machine  with  unfettered  manoeu- 
vring powers. 

Engine-trouble  or  loss  of  stability  over  enemy  ter- 
ritory means  almost  infallible  capture  or  death  for 
the  pilot  of  a  bombing  aeroplane.  Yet  in  cases  of 
disablement,  rather  than  come  down  on  the  ground 
and  suffer  themselves  or  their  machine  to  be  taken 
prisoner,  it  is  their  gallant  tradition  to  try  to  strug- 
gle out  to  sea.  Here  they  stand  about  as  much 
chance  of  life  as  a  pheasant  winged  above  a  lake, 
but  the  machine  sinks  before  German  hands  can 
touch  it. 

Now  it  happened  that  on  one  such  occasion  the 
descent  into  the  sea  of  a  bombing  machine  was  ob- 
served by  two  French  flying  boats  which  were  out 
on  patrol.  The  distressed  machine  was  still  within 
range  of  the  shore  batteries,  and  the  Bodies,  smart- 
ing under  the  effect  of  the  bombs  she  had  succeeded 


THE  NAVY-THAT-FLIES  91 

in  dropping,  were  retaliating  in  the  most  approved 
Germanic  manner  by  plastering  the  helpless  machine 
with  shrapnel  as  she  slowly  sank. 

The  two  French  flying  boats  sped  to  the  rescue 
and  alighted  in  the  water  beside  the  wrecked  British 
machine.  One  embarked  the  observer,  who  was 
wounded,  and,  in  spite  of  redoubled  fire  from  the 
shore,  succeeded  in  returning  safely.  The  other 
French  flying-boat  actually  embarked  the  remaining 
occupants  of  the  bombing  machine,  but  was  hit  as  it 
rose  from  the  water  and  fell  disabled.  The  French 
pilot,  seeing  a  Boche  seaplane  approaching,  and  a 
bevy  of  small  craft  in-shore  coming  out  against  them, 
scribbled  a  message  to  say  that  his  venture  had  failed; 
he  found  time  to  add,  however,  with  true  Gallic 
dauntlessness  of  spirit,  "Vive  la  France  1"  This  mis- 
sive he  fastened  to  the  leg  of  his  carrier  pigeon,  and 
succeeded  in  releasing  it  before  rescuers  and  rescued 
were  taken  prisoners. 

From  time  to  time  curt  official  announcements  of 
successful  bomb-raids  upon  German  destroyer  and 
submarine  bases  appear  in  the  press.  It  may  be  that 
the  Naval  honours  or  casualties  lists  are  swelled 
thereby.  But  no  one  who  has  not  stood  in  the  wind 
that  blows  across  the  bombers'  aerodrome  at  night, 
in  those  last  tense  moments  before  the  start,  can  form 
any  idea  of  the  conditions  under  which  these  grim 
laurels  are  earned. 

One  by  one  the  leather-clad  pilots  conclude  their 
final  survey  and  climb  up  into  their  machines.  They 


92  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

adjust  goggles  and  gloves:  there  is  a  warning  "Stand 
clear  I"  and  the  darkness  fills  with  roaring  sound  as 
No.  i  starts  his  engine.  For  a  moment  longer  he 
sits  in  the  utter  isolation  of  darkness  and  the  deafen- 
ing noise  of  his  own  engine.  No  further  sounds  can 
reach  him;  not  another  order  nor  the  valedictory 
"Good  luck!"  from  those  whose  lot  it  is  to  only  stand 
and  wait.  He  settles  himself  comfortably  and  fingers 
the  familiar  levers  and  throttle;  then  with  a  jerk  the 
bomber  starts  along  the  uneven  ground,  gathers  way, 
and  rising,  speeds  droning  into  the  darkness  like  a 
gigantic  cockchafer.  A  moment  later  No.  2  follows, 
then  another,  and  another.  The  night  swallows 
them,  and  the  sound  of  their  engines  dies  away. 

A  couple  of  hours  later  in  one  of  the  grey-painted 
huts  that  fringe  the  aerodrome  a  telephone  bell  jan- 
gles. The  squadron  commander  picks  up  the  re- 
ceiver and  holds  converse  with  a  tiny  metallic  voice 
that  sounds  very  far  away;  the  conversation  ends,  he 
puts  on  his  cap  and  goes  out  into  the  darkness;  a  few 
minutes  later  a  sudden  row  of  lights  across  the  aero- 
drome makes  bright  pin-pricks  in  the  darkness.  From 
far  away  in  the  air  comes  the  hum  of  an  engine  grow- 
ing momentarily  louder.  It  grows  louder  and  clearer 
as  the  homing  machine  circles  overhead  and  finally 
comes  to  earth  with  a  rushing  wind  and  the  scramble 
of  men's  feet  invisible. 

The  pilot  climbs  stiffly  out  of  his  seat,  pushing  up 
his  goggles,  and  puckers  his  eyes  in  the  light  of  the 
lanterns  as  he  fumbles  for  his  cigarette  case.  "Got 


THE  NAVY-THAT-FLIES  93 

'em,"  he  says  laconically.  * 'Seaplane  sheds  on  the 
mole.  Time  for  another  trip?" 

There  is  time,  it  appears.  He  drinks  hot  coffee 
while  the  armourers  snap  a  fresh  supply  of  bombs 
into  the  holders  and  test  the  release  gear.  He  an- 
swers questions  curtly  and  his  replies  are  very  much 
to  the  point. 

Their  "Archies"  are  shooting  well,  and  they've 
got  a  lot  more  searchlights  at  work  than  they  had 
last  time.  Rather  warm  work  while  it  lasted.  He 
thinks  No.  I  was  hit  and  brought  down  in  flames. 
No.  2  seemed  to  have  engine  trouble  this  side  of  our 
lines  on  the  way  back.  No.  3  ought  to  be  along  soon. 
And  while  he  gulps  his  coffee  and  grunts  monosyl- 
lables there  is  a  whirring  overhead  and  No.  3  returns, 
loudly  demanding  a  fresh  supply  of  bombs  with  which 
to  put  an  artistic  finish  to  a  row  of  blazing  oil-tanks. 

They  climb  into  their  machines  again  and  lean 
back  resting,  while  the  finishing  touches  (which 
sometimes  come  between  life  and  death)  are  put  to 
the  machines  and  their  deadly  freight.  Then  once 
more  they  soar  up  into  the  night. 

Dawn  is  breaking  when  No.  4  returns,  tired-eyed, 
and  more  monosyllabic  than  ever.  It  came  off  all 
right,  but  No.  3  had  seemed  to  lose  control  and  slid 
down  the  beam  of  a  searchlight  with  shells  and  balls 
of  red  fire  (some  new  stunt,  he  supposed)  bursting 
all  about  her.  However,  she  got  her  bombs  off  first, 
and  touched  up  something  that  sent  a  flame  200  feet 
into  the  air.  He  himself  bombed  a  group  of  search- 


94  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

lights  that  were  annoying  him,  and  some  trucks  in  a 
railway  siding.  The  speaker  has  an  ugly  shrapnel 
wound  in  the  thigh  and  observes  with  grave  humour 
that  his  boots  are  full  of  blood — this  is  a  Navy  joke, 
by  the  way.  Also  that  he  could  do  with  a  drink. 
But  it  came  off  all  right. 

Now  the  seaplanes,  who  undertake  much  the  same 
sort  of  job,  keep  pigs,  and  contemplate  their  stern 
mission  with  an  extinguishable  and  fathomless  sense 
of  humour.  This  may  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact 
that  in  life  and  death  they  are  more  in  touch  with 
the  native  element  of  the  Navy-that-Floats  and  share 
much  of  its  light-heartedness  in  consequence. 

Aerial  gymnastics  are  not  in  their  line.  They 
fight  when  they  must,  and  the  straightest  shot  wins. 
If  hit,  unless  hopelessly  out  of  control,  they  take  to 
the  water  like  a  wounded  duck.  If  the  damage  is 
beyond  temporary  repair  they  sit  on  the  surface  and 
pray  for  the  dawn  and  a  tow  from  a  friendly  de- 
stroyer. 

No  aerial  adventure  is  ever  recounted  (and  the 
array  of  medal  ribbons  round  their  mess  table  is  wit- 
ness to  the  quality  of  these  blindfold  flights)  without 
its  humorous  aspect  well-nigh  obliterating  all  else. 
One  who  fought  a  Zeppelin  single-handed  with  a 
Webley-Scott  pistol  and  imprecations  found  himself 
immortalised  only  in  the  pages  of  a  magazine  of 
Puck-like  humour  they  publish  ( Fate  and  funds  per- 
mitting) monthly.  Another,  disabled  on  the  water 


THE  NAVY-THAT-FLIES  95 

off  an  enemy's  port,  succeeded  in  getting  his  engine 
going  as  the  crew  of  an  armed  trawler  were  leaning 
over  the  bows  with  boat-hooks  to  secure  him.  He 
rose  from  the  water  beneath  their  outstretched  hands, 
and  recalled  with  breathless  merriment  nothing  but 
the  astonishment  on  their  Teutonic  faces.  A  third, 
similarly  disabled,  was  approached  on  the  surface  by 
a  German  submarine.  He  raked  her  deck  with  his 
Lewis  gun  and  kept  her  at  bay — by  the  simple  ex- 
pedient of  picking  off  every  head  that  appeared  above 
her  conning-tower — until  she  wearied  of  the  sport 
and  withdrew.  From  a  seaplane  point  of  view  it  was 
a  pretty  jest. 

At  the  conclusion  of  a  day's  aerial  fighting  on  the 
Somme  front  a  certain  officer  of  the  Navy-that-Flies 
was  asked  how  he  felt  about  it. 

"Wa-al  .  .  ."  he  drawled,  and  paused,  groping 
in  his  mind  for  metaphor.  "It's  jest  like  stealing 
candy  from  a  kid." 

Making  all  allowances  for  poetic  licence,  this  is  a 
very  fair  illustration  of  the  spirit  in  which  the  Navy- 
that-Flies  went  about  the  business.  On  the  other 
hand  there  were  a  few  who  took  a  graver  view  of 
their  responsibilities. 

Among  the  possessions  of  one  of  the  naval  squad- 
rons co-operating  with  the  Army-that- Flies  along  the 
front  is  a  foolscap  manuscript  notebook  bearing  the 
superscription  Notes  on  Aerial  Fighting.  The  youth- 
ful author  of  these  notes  will  never  handle  either  pen 
or  "joy-stick"  again,  but  he  has  left  behind  him  a 


96  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

document  that  is,  in  its  way,  one  of  the  epics  of  war 
literature.  It  has  since  been  printed  (in  expurgated 
form),  and  has  doubtless  found  its  way  into  text- 
books and  treatises  on  the  subject.  But  to  be  appre- 
ciated to  the  full  it  should  be  read  in  the  original 
round,  rather  boyish  handwriting,  within  hearing  of 
the  continuous  murmur  of  the  British  guns  and  the 
drone  of  a  scouting  fighter  passing  overhead. 

It  contains  ten  commandments,  which,  for  a  va- 
riety of  reasons,  need  not  be  recapitulated  here.  But 
the  introduction  epitomises  the  spirit  of  them  all: 

"The  man  who  gets  most  Huns  in  his  lifetime  is 
the  man  who  observes  these  commandments  and 
fights  with  his  head.  The  others  either  get  killed 
or  get  nerves  in  a  very  short  time  and  the  country 
does  not  get  the  full  benefit  of  having  trained  them." 

The  commandments  conclude  with  the  following 
exhortation:  "A  very  pleasant  (sic)  help  in  time  of 
trouble  is  to  put  yourself  in  the  enemy's  place  and 
view  the  situation  from  his  point  of  view.  If  you 
feel  frightened  before  an  attack,  just  think  how 
frightened  he  must  be!" 

The  Navy-that-Floats  possesses  for  its  "pleasant 
help"  an  awesome  volume  of  some  946  pages  (not 
counting  Addenda),  entitled  The  King's  Regulations 
and  Admiralty  Instructions.  Yet  in  all  its  pages 
there  is  not  one  clause  which  can  compare  with  this 
brave  sentence:  for  this  is  youth  speaking  to  youth, 
for  the  guidance  and  comfort  of  his  soul. 

Now  in  one  of  the  squadrons  of  the  Navy-that- 


THE  NAVY-THAT-FLIES  97 

Flies  there  are  three  flight  leaders,  and  the  sum  total 
of  their  ages  is  fifty-nine.  The  youngest,  whatever 
his  birth  certificate  may  testify,  looks  something  un- 
der sixteen.  Of  him  it  is  related  that  in  his  early 
youth,  having  brought  down  a  hostile  machine  within 
the  British  lines  and  captured  the  two  occupants 
(with  Iron  Crosses  complete),  he  approached  a  cer- 
tain general,  demanding  transport  for  his  prisoners 
' — covering  them  the  while  with  an  automatic  pistol. 

"Transport?'*  said  the  general.  "Where  d'you 
want  to  take  them?" 

"To  my  squadron  headquarters,"  was  the  grave 
reply.  "I'd  like  to  keep  'em  for  a  bit.  I'd  like  the 
others  to  see  'em." 

"Damn  it,"  replied  the  General,  "they  ain't  ca- 
naries. Certainly  not.  Send  'em  to  the  cages  with 
the  rest  of  the  prisoners." 

The  victor  flew  sorrowfully  homewards,  and  on 
arrival  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  professional  jeal- 
ousy was  the  ruination  of  the  Junior  Service.  .  .  . 

They  are  not  given  to  talking  over-much  of  their 
achievements  in  the  hearing  of  a  stranger  within  their 
gates.  The  second  youngest  of  the  trio  admitted, 
contemplating  his  cow-hide  boots,  to  have  "done-in" 
twelve  hostile  machines  in  single  combat — and  lapsed 
into  agonised  silence. 

"Of  course,"  said  the  third,  coming  to  the  rescue 
of  a  comrade  in  palpable  distress,  "N.,  the  star 
Frenchman,  is  the  fellow  to  talk  if  you  want  to  hear 
some  good  yarns."  The  speaker  had  the  grave, 


98  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

sweet  face  of  a  mediaeval  knight,  and  the  owner  of 
the  cow-hide  boots  shot  him  a  swift  glance  of  grati- 
tude. 

"He's  done-in  fifty  Huns,"  he  confirmed,  nodding. 

It  was  on  the  following  day,  as  it  happened,  that 
Fate  introduced  the  Frenchman  to  the  Stranger 
within  the  Gates  of  the  Navy-that-Flies.  The  flying 
man  landed  on  one  of  the  aerodromes  of  the  Navy- 
that-Flies,  a  florid-faced  young  man,  chubby  and  blue- 
eyed.  The  squadron  strolled  out  to  greet  him  with 
ready  hospitality  and  hero-worship. 

"Bon  jour,  N.,"  said  the  squadron  commander. 
"How  goes  it?" 

The  famous  French  fighting  pilot  swung  himself 
out  of  his  machine  and  pulled  off  his  gauntlet.  He 
wore,  in  addition  to  the  regulation  flying  helmet,  a 
bright-blue  muffler  wound  with  many  turns  round  the 
lower  part  of  his  face,  and  a  soiled  aquascutum  with 
a  row  of  medal-ribbons  reaching  half-way  across  his 
breast.  The  wind  fluttered  its  skirts,  disclosing  a 
pair  of  tight  red  breeches  above  top-boots  of  a  light 
yellow.  As  an  additional  protection  against  the  cold 
his  feet  were  encased  in  fur  moccasins.  He  greeted 
the  Navy-that-Flies  in  rapid  French  and  threw  their 
ranks  into  some  disorder. 

"Translate,  George,"  said  the  squadron  comman- 
der. 

"He  says  he's  on  sick  leave,"  exclaimed  one  of 
the  hosts.  "He's  just  flying  to  keep  his  eye  in.  He 
scuppered  five  Boches  last  week." 


THE  NAVY-THAT-FLIES  99 

"Si,"  said  the  Frenchman,  nodding,  and  held  up 
his  hand  with  outstretched  fingers,  "Cinq!" 

"Good  on  you,  old  sport,"  said  the  squadron  com- 
mander. They  shook  hands  again,  and  the  remainder 
clustered  rather  curiously  round  the  sinister  machine 
with  the  black  skull  and  cross-bones  adorning  its 
fusilage. 

"Makes  one  sort  of  sorry  for  the  Hun,  doesn't  it?" 
said  one  musingly. 

"George,"  said  another,  "ask  him  what  that  doo- 
hickie  on  the  muzzle  of  his  gun's  for."  He  indi- 
cated a  detail  on  the  mounting. 

The  Frenchman  explained  at  some  length,  and  the 
interpreter  interpreted. 

"Bon!"  said  the  squadron  commander. 

"Oui,"  said  the  Frenchman,  "tres  bonf  You  'ave 
not  eet — cette — comment  dites  vous? — doo-hickie? 
No?" 

"No,"  was  the  reply,  "mais  nous  blooming  well 
allons " 

The  Frenchman  presently  climbed  back  into  his 
machine  and  took  his  departure.  The  squadron  com- 
mander summoned  his  chief  armourer,  and  for  a 
while  deep  called  to  deep. 

"He's  a  red-hot  lad,  that  Frenchman,"  said  the 
squadron  commander,  when  the  chief  armourer  had 
gone.  "I  fancy  he  only  came  down  to  let  us  see  that 
doo-hickie  of  his  on  his  gun.  You  ought  to  hear 
some  of  his  yarns,  though." 

The  Stranger  within  the  Gates  of  the  Navy-that- 


loo  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

Flies  gazed  after  the  aerial  speck  against  the  blue 
of  heaven,  and  his  soul  was  glad  within  him,  because 
it  was  all  the  purest  Navy. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said.  "But  what  I  should 
like  to  know  is,  what  the  deuce  is  a  doo-hickie?" 

UA  doo-hickie?"  replied  the  squadron  commander. 
"A  doo-hickie?  H'm'm.  George,  how  would  you 
describe  a  doo-hickie  ?" 

The  officer  appealed  to  puffed  his  pipe  in  silence 
for  a  moment.  "Well,"  he  said  at  length,  "you 
know  more  or  less  what  a  gadget's  like  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  a  gilguy?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  a  doo-hickie  is  something  like  that,  only 
smaller  as  a  rule." 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  the  squadron  com- 
mander leaned  forward  and  flicked  a  speck  of  fluff 
off  the  shoulder  of  the  Stranger  within  their  Gates. 

"There  you  are!"  he  exclaimed  triumphantly — 
"that's  a  doo-hickie!" 

"Have  a  drink,  anyway,"  said  the  officer  who  an- 
swered to  the  name  of  George,  soothingly. 

The  Stranger  within  the  Gates  of  the  Navy-that- 
Flies  had  the  drink,  and  from  then  onwards  forbore 
to  ask  any  more  questions. 

But  he  still  sometimes  wonders  what  the  functions 
of  a  doo-hickie  might  be. 


CHAPTER  IV 

"LEST  WE  FORGET" 

i.  H.M.S.  "SHARK" 

HM.S.  Shark,  under  the  command  of  Com- 
•  mander  Loftus  W.  Jones,  went  into  action* 
about  5.45  p.m.  on  May  3ist,  1916,  with  a  comple- 
ment of  ninety-one  officers  and  men;  of  that  num- 
ber only  six  saw  June  ist  dawn. 

In  spite  of  the  soul-shaking  experience  through 
which  they  passed,  these  six  men  have  remembered 
sufficient  details  of  the  action  to  enable  the  follow- 
ing record  to  be  pieced  together.  Many  stirring 
acts  of  gallantry  and  self-sacrifice,  and  much  of  in- 
terest to  the  relatives  and  friends  of  those  who  were 
lost,  must  inevitably  be  lacking  from  this  narrative. 
But  the  evidence  shows  such  supreme  human  cour- 
age and  devotion  to  duty  in  the  face  of  death,  that, 
incomplete  as  it  is,  the  story  remains  one  of  the  most 
glorious  in  the  annals  of  the  Navy. 

At  two  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  May  3ist  the 
Shark  and  three  other  destroyers,  Acasta,  Ophelia, 
and  Christopher,  were  acting  as  a  submarine  screen 
to  the  Third  Battle  Cruiser  Squadron,  with  the  light 

101 


102  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

cruisers  Chester  and  Canterbury  in  company.  The 
force  was  steaming  on  a  southerly  course  in  advance 
of  the  British  Battle  Fleet,  which  was  engaged  in  one 
of  its  periodical  sweeps  of  the  North  Sea. 

This  advance  squadron  was  under  the  command  of 
Rear-Admiral  the  Hon.  Horace  A.  L.  Hood,  C.B., 
M.V.O.,  D.S.O.,  flying  his  flag  in  Invincible. 

The  main  Battle  Cruiser  Fleet  and  the  Fifth  Bat- 
tle Squadron  were  considerably  farther  to  the  south- 
ward, and  at  2.20  p.m.  the  light  cruisers  attached  to 
this  force  signalled  by  wireless  the  first  intimation 
that  the  enemy's  fleet  was  at  sea.  Subsequent  re- 
ports confirmed  this,  and  acting  on  the  information 
contained  in  these  intercepted  messages,  Rear-Ad- 
miral Hood  ordered  the  ship's  companies  to  "Action 
Stations/'  and  shaped  course  to  intercept  the  advanc- 
ing enemy. 

At  3.48  p.m.  the  Battle  Cruiser  Fleet  and  the  Fifth 
Battle  Squadron  engaged  the  German  Main  Fleet 
and  turned  north  with  the  object  of  drawing  the 
enemy  towards  the  British  Battle  Fleet.  It  must  be 
remembered  that  at  this  point  the  enemy  was  pre- 
sumably in  complete  ignorance  of  the  approach  of  the 
British  Main  Fleet.  The  weather  was  hazy,  with 
very  little  wind  and  patches  of  mist  that  reduced  the 
visibility  to  an  extent  that  varied  from  one  to  eight 
miles. 

At  4.4  p.m.  Rear-Admiral  Hood  received  orders 
from  Admiral  Sir  John  Jellicoe,  Commander-in- 
Chief,  to  proceed  at  full  speed  with  his  squadron  and 


"LEST  WE  FORGET"  103 

reinforce  the  Battle  Cruiser  Fleet;  the  Third  Battle 
Cruiser  Squadron  altered  course  as  necessary,  and 
an  hour  and  a  half  later  the  first  sounds  of  firing 
reached  them  out  of  the  mists  ahead. 

The  first  faint  intermittent  murmur  of  sound  in- 
creased momentarily  as  the  two  forces  converged, 
and  at  5.40  p.m.  the  haze  on  the  starboard  bow  was 
pierced  by  flashes  of  gunfire;  a  few  minutes  later  a 
force  of  German  light  cruisers  and  destroyers  be- 
came visible,  heavily  engaged  with  an  unseen  op- 
ponent to  the  westward. 

Fire  was  immediately  opened  and  Rear-Admiral 
Hood  turned  to  starboard,  bringing  the  enemy  on  to 
the  port  bow  of  his  squadron.  Three  light  cruisers, 
a  flotilla  leader,  and  ten  destroyers  were  now  visible, 
the  latter  apparently  turning  to  launch  a  torpedo  at- 
tack upon  the  Third  Battle  Cruiser  Squadron.  The 
four  destroyers  who  had  hitherto  been  disposed  in 
two  subdivisions,  one  on  each  bow  of  the  Invincible, 
were  thereupon  ordered  to  attack  the  enemy.  Led 
by  Commander  Loftus  Jones  in  the  Shark,  the  divi- 
sion swung  round,  and  hurled  itself  at  the  German 
force,  opening  fire  with  every  gun  that  would  bear. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  enemy  opened  a  heavy, 
though  ill-directed  fire  on  the  battle  cruisers.  A  large 
proportion  of  the  salvos  were  falling  short,  and  the 
British  destroyers  had  in  consequence  to  advance 
through  a  barrage  of  fire  which  surrounded  them  on 
all  sides  with  columns  of  water  and  bursting  shell. 

In  spite  of  their  numerical  superiority,  the  Ger- 


104  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

man  destroyers  turned  away  in  the  face  of  this  deter- 
mined onslaught,  and  Commander  Loftus  Jones,  sat- 
isfied that  the  intended  torpedo  attack  on  Rear-Ad- 
miral Hood's  squadron  had  been  frustrated,  and  hav- 
ing fired  two  of  his  three  torpedoes,  turned  sixteen 
points  to  regain  his  position  on  the  bow  of  the  In- 
vincible. The  remaining  three  destroyers  followed 
in  his  wake. 

Three  German  battle  cruisers  had  then  appeared 
out  of  the  mist  in  support  of  the  enemy  light  cruisers, 
and  the  gallant  division,  with  Shark  at  their  head, 
turned  under  a  concentrated  deluge  of  shells  from 
the  entire  German  force. 

A  fragment  of  a  projectile  struck  the  Shark's 
wheel,  shattering  it,  and  wounding  the  coxswain, 
Petty  Officer  Griffin,  on  the  right  hand.  The  cap- 
tain immediately  ordered  the  after  wheel  to  be 
manned  and  followed  the  coxswain  down  the  ladder 
to  the  shell-torn  upper-deck  to  con  the  ship  from  aft. 
The  yeoman  of  signals,  Petty  Officer  Banham,  who 
up  to  this  point  had  been  the  third  occupant  of  the 
bridge,  hurried  after  the  captain. 

The  enemy  were  now  using  shrapnel,  and  the  cap- 
tain was  wounded  in  the  thigh  and  face  as  he  reached 
the  bottom  of  the  ladder.  He  stumbled  aft,  endeav- 
ouring to  staunch  the  flow  of  blood  with  his  hands, 
to  find  on  reaching  the  engine-room  hatchway  that 
a  shell  had  burst  inside  the  engine-room,  and  the 
main  engines  and  steering  gear  were  completely  dis- 
abled. The  coxswain  had  been  struck  at  the  same 


"LEST  WE  FORGET"  105 

time  as  the  captain,  and  dropped  insensible  from  a 
wound  in  the  head.  The  foremost  gun,  under  the 
command  of  Sub-Lieutenant  Vance,  had  been  blown 
away,  and  only  one  survivor  of  its  crew  lay  badly 
wounded  amid  the  wreckage. 

The  Shark  was  then  lying  with  disabled  engines 
helpless  under  a  heavy  fire,  and  Lieutenant-Com- 
mander John  O.  Barren,  who  commanded  the  Acasta, 
and  had  been  second  in  the  line,  gallantly  brought 
his  destroyer  between  the  Shark  and  the  enemy's  fire, 
and  signalled  to  ask  if  he  could  be  of  any  assistance. 
The  captain  of  the  Shark  was  then  aft,  cheering  and 
encouraging  the  crews  of  the  midship  and  after  guns. 
The  yeoman  of  signals,  who  remained  at  his  side, 
read  the  signal  and  reported  it  to  the  captain,  who 
replied,  "No.  Tell  him  to  look  after  himself  and 
not  get  sunk  over  us." 

The  yeoman  of  signals  accordingly  semaphored 
Commander  Jones's  last  signal  to  the  division  under 
his  orders,  and  the  Acasta  followed  in  the  wake  of 
the  other  two  boats  which  were  rejoining  the  battle 
cruisers. 

It  is  probable  that  at  this  juncture  Rear-Admiral 
Hood  sighted  the  British  Battle  Cruiser  Fleet,  which 
he  had  been  ordered  to  reinforce,  and  proceeded  to 
carry  out  his*  orders.  The  Third  Battle  Cruiser 
Squadron  vanished  into  the  mist,  and  the  enemy 
closed  in  upon  the  Shark,  which  lay  rolling  helplessly 
in  the  swell,  blazing  defiance  from  her  after  and 
midship  guns. 


*o6  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

The  after  gun  was  almost  immediately  put  out  of 
action  and  its  crew  killed  and  wounded.  Amid  a  hail 
of  shrapnel  bullets  and  flying  splinters  the  spare  tor- 
pedo was  hoisted  off  the  rack,  and,  under  the  direc- 
tions of  the  captain,  was  being  launched  into  the  tube, 
when  it  was  struck  by  a  shell  and  burst  with  a  vio* 
lent  explosion,  causing  heavy  casualties. 

Only  one  gun,  the  midship  one,  now  remained  in 
action.  The  ship  was  settling  down  by  the  bows  and 
every  moment  she  shuddered  with  the  impact  of  a 
fresh  hit.  The  riven  upper-deck  was  a  shambles,  and 
the  dead,  mingled  with  shattered  wreckage,  were 
blown  hither  and  thither  by  the  blast  of  exploding 
shell.  Projectiles,  pitching  short,  flung  great  col- 
umns of  water  into  the  air,  or  passed  screaming  over- 
head ;  the  upper-works  were  riddled  by  splinters  from 
bursting  salvos. 

One  by  one  the  wounded  crawled  brokenly  into 
the  lee  of  the  casings  and  funnels  in  pitiful  attempts 
to  find  shelter;  among  them  knelt  the  devoted  figure 
of  the  surgeon,  (Surgeon-Probationer  Robert 
Walker,  R.N.V.R.)  endeavouring  single-handed  to 
cope  with  his  gallant,  hopeless  task.  When  last  seen 
he  was  bandaging  a  man  who  had  lost  a  hand  when 
the  torpedo  exploded.  He  was  then  himself  severely 
wounded,  and  was  apparently  shortly  afterwards 
killed. 

The  enemy  had  then  closed  in  to  a  range  of  about 
1,500  yards;  the  survivors  of  the  engine-room  staff 
had  come  on  deck  and  the  captain  ordered  the  col- 


"LEST  WE  FORGET"  107 

lision-mats  to  be  placed  over  the  shot-holes,  and 
every  attempt  to  be  made  to  plug  them  and  keep  the 
ship  afloat.  This  was  accordingly  done  under  the 
direction  of  Lieutenant  Ernest  T.  Donnell,  the  first 
lieutenant,  who  appears  to  have  been  still  un- 
wounded,  and  maintained  a  cheering  spirit  of  indomi- 
table pluck  to  the  last.  The  coxswain,  who  had  re- 
covered consciousness,  though  half-blinded  by  blood 
from  his  wound,  superintended  a  party  who  under 
the  captain's  orders  were  turning  out  the  boats  and 
endeavouring  to  launch  the  rafts.  The  boats  were 
smashed  by  shell-fire  while  still  at  the  davits,  but 
three  rafts — two  regulation  life-saving  rafts,  and  an 
extemporised  affair  of  four  barrels  lashed  together — 
were  placed  in  the  water. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  midship  gun,  under  the  com- 
mand of  Midshipman  T.  Smith,  R.N.R.,  maintained 
a  steady  fire.  The  stock  of  percussion  tubes  threat- 
ened to  run  short  at  one  time,  and  the  gunner,  Mr. 
W.  Gale,  though  severely  wounded,  crawled  down 
below  and  fetched  a  fresh  supply,  shortly  after  which 
he  was  killed.  Leading  Signalman  Hodgetts,  who 
had  been  previously  working  as  one  of  the  ammuni- 
tion supply  party,  was  blown  overboard  by  the  ex- 
plosion of  a  shell;  a  few  minutes  later  his  dripping 
figure  appeared  over  the  rail,  and  he  coolly  resumed 
his  work;  by  some  curious  freak  of  chance  he  was 
again  blown  overboard  by  the  blast  of  a  shell,  but 
again  he  clambered  back  to  his  place  of  duty,  and 
his  death. 


io8  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

The  crew  of  the  midship  gun  was  ultimately  re- 
duced to  two  men,  Able  Seaman  Howell,  the  gun- 
layer,  and  Able  Seaman  Hope.  The  midshipman 
trained  the  gun  while  Hope  loaded  and  Howell  fired. 
The  captain  stood  beside  the  gun  giving  them  the 
range,  heartening  the  remnant  of  the  crew  by  his  ex- 
ample of  cool  courage.  Howell,  who  had  been  se- 
verely wounded,  eventually  dropped  from  loss  of 
blood,  and  the  captain  took  his  place.  A  moment 
later  he  was  himself  struck  by  a  shell,  which  took 
off  his  right  leg  above  the  knee. 

He  lay  on  the  deck  in  the  rear  of  the  gun  while 
the  coxswain  and  a  chief  stoker,  named  Hammell, 
between  them  improvised  a  tourniquet  from  a  piece 
of  rope  and  fragment  of  wood.  While  they  were 
endeavouring  to  stop  the  bleeding,  Commander 
Loftus  Jones,  in  the  words  of  an  eyewitness  who 
survived,  "gentleman  and  captain  as  he  was,"  con- 
tinued to  direct  the  firing  of  the  gun. 

In  all  history  the  unquenchable  spirit  of  man  has 
rarely  triumphed  so  completely  over  shattered  nerves 
and  body.  As  his  strength  ebbed,  Commander 
Loftus  Jones  seems  to  have  been  overtaken  by  fear 
lest  the  ship  should  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy, 
and  seeing  the  German  destroyers  approaching,  he 
gave  orders  for  the  Shark  to  be  sunk.  A  moment 
later,  however,  the  gun  fired  another  round;  and  ap- 
parently realising  that  the  ship  was  still  capable  of 
further  resistance,  he  countermanded  the  order,  add- 
ing "Fight  the  ship!" 


"LEST  WE  FORGET"  109 

The  gaff  on  the  mainmast  at  which  the  Ensign  was 
flown  had  been  broken  by  a  shot,  and  the  flag  hung 
limp  against  the  mast.  The  mind  of  the  captain 
must  have  turned  at  the  last  to  that  emblem  of  all  he 
was  dying  for  so  gallantly,  for  presently  he  asked 
faintly  what  had  happened  to  the  flag.  One  of  the 
men  tending  him  replied  that  it  had  been  shot  away, 
and  in  great  distress  he  ordered  another  to  be  hoisted 
immediately. 

Able  Seaman  Hope  accordingly  left  the  gun,  and 
climbing  up,  detached  the  ensign  and  handed  it  down 
to  Midshipman  Smith,  who  bent  it  on  to  a  fresh 
pair  of  halyards  and  hoisted  it  at  the  yard-arm.  The 
captain,  seeing  it  once  more  flying  clear,  said,  "That's 
good,"  and  appeared  content. 

The  end  was  now  drawing  very  near.  The  bows 
of  the  Shark  had  sunk  until  the  foremost  funnel  was 
awash,  and  the  waves  were  lapping  over  the  water- 
logged hull.  Seeing  that  two  German  destroyers  had 
approached  to  within  a  few  hundred  yards  with  the 
evident  intention  of  administering  the  coup  de  grace, 
Commander  Loftus  Jones  gave  his  last  order  to  the 
ship's  company,  "Save  yourselves !" 

He  was  helped  into  the  water  by  the  coxswain  and 
a  number  of  others  who  had  tended  him  devotedly 
after  he  received  his  mortal  wound,  and  floated  clear 
of  the  ship  with  the  support  of  a  life-belt.  The  re- 
mainder of  the  crew,  to  the  number  of  about  a  score, 
swam  towards  the  rafts  and  pieces  of  floating  wreck- 
age. 


no  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

Two  torpedoes  struck  the  Shark  amidships  almost 
simultaneously.  With  a  muffled  explosion  she  lurched 
violently  to  starboard,  flinging  overboard  the  dead 
and  wounded  who  still  remained  on  deck.  Her  stern 
rose  until  it  was  almost  perpendicular  and  she  sank 
with  colours  flying,  about  an  hour  and  a  half  after 
firing  her  first  shot. 

Stoker  Petty  Officer  Filleul  and  Able  .  Seaman 
Smith  succeeded  in  placing  the  captain  on  the  raft  of 
barrels,  where  they  propped  him  in  a  sitting  position 
with  the  aid  of  lifebelts  and  buoys.  While  this  was 
being  done  the  captain  attempted  to  smile,  and  shook 
his  head,  saying,  "It's  no  good,  lads." 

Stoker  Petty  Officer  Filleul  remained  by  the  cap- 
tain, and  Able  Seaman  Smith  swam  to  one  of  the 
other  rafts  on  which  the  coxswain,  Petty  Officer  Grif- 
fin, Chief  Stoker  Newcombe,  Yeoman  of  Signals  Ban- 
ham,  Stoker  Swan,  and  Able  Seamen  Hope  and 
Howell  had  succeeded  in  crawling.  The  three  rafts 
drifted  within  sight  of  each  other  through  the  long 
northern  summer  twilight. 

Shortly  after  the  Shark  sank,  the  British  battle 
cruisers  swept  past  in  pursuit  of  the  enemy.  The 
captain  asked  if  the  pursuing  ships  were  British. 
Filleul  replied  that  they  were,  and  the  captain  said, 
"That's  good!" 

Not  long  afterwards  his  head  fell  forward  and 
his  gallant  spirit  fled. 

The  second  life-saving  raft  had  been  so  damaged 
by  shell-fire  that  only  two  men  could  be  accommo- 


"LEST  WE  FORGET"  in 

dated  upon  it.  The  two  most  severely  wounded  (one 
of  them  had  lost  a  leg)  were  helped  on  to  it  by  a 
number  of  others  who  themselves  clung  to  the  edge, 
among  them  being  the  first  lieutenant.  Able  Sea- 
man Smith,  on  the  other  raft,  realising  that  the  ma- 
jority were  badly  wounded,  and  being  himself  only 
slightly  hurt,  swam  over  to  render  what  assistance 
he  could.  The  first  lieutenant,  who  had  unfailingly 
cheered  and  comforted  the  stricken  little  band,  pres- 
ently asked  if  any  could  still  sing,  and  then,  without 
faltering,  himself  began : 

"Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee." 

Those  who  had  the  strength  joined  in  as  they 
clung  submerged  up  to  their  shoulders  in  the  icy  wa- 
ter, almost  unrecognisable  from  the  thick  black  oil 
which  floated  on  the  surface;  and  so,  one  by  one, 
death  overtook  them.  Able  Seaman  Smith  alone  sur- 
vived more  than  a  couple  of  hours. 

While  it  was  still  light  the  British  Battle  Fleet 
was  sighted  through  the  mists,  and  the  drenched, 
haggard  figures  on  the  other  raft  cheered  it  as  it 
passed  five  miles  away.  With  indomitable  optimism 
they  all  clung  to  the  hope  of  a  speedy  rescue,  and 
Able  Seaman  Howell  semaphored  across  the  waste 
of  water  "We  are  British, "  in  the  hope  that  it  would 
be  read  by  one  of  the  distant  ships. 

The  twilight  deepened  into  dusk,  and  the  raft  on 
which  Able  Seaman  Smith  alone  survived  was  lost  to 
sight.  The  six  occupants  of  the  other  sat  with  the 


ii2  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

waves  washing  over  them,  nursing  their  wounds  and 
debating  the  prospects  of  being  picked  up.  The 
yeoman  of  signals  rambled  into  delirium  at  times,  and 
finally  said,  "I  must  have  a  sleep.  .  .  .  Let  me  get 
my  head  down." 

Able  Seaman  Hope  attempted  to  dissuade  him,  but 
without  avail.  "I  must  sleep,"  he  insisted  patheti- 
cally, and  as  he  stretched  himself  in  the  bottom  of 
the  raft  the  ruling  instinct  of  the  Service  came  back 
through  the  mists  of  death.  "Give  us  a  shake  if  the 
captain  wants  anything,"  he  said,  and  his  loyal  spirit 
passed  to  join  that  of  his  captain. 

Shortly  before  midnight  the  distant  lights  of  a 
steamer  were  sighted.  Able  Seaman  Howell  then  re- 
membered for  the  first  time  that  he  had  fastened  a 
Holmes  light  with  wire  on  one  of  the  rafts  a  few 
days  previously.  Steadying  himself  with  difficulty 
on  the  pitching  raft,  he  fumbled  along  the  edge  and 
presently  found  the  little  tin  cylinder  that  was  to 
prove  their  salvation.  With  the  last  remnants  of  his 
failing  strength  he  wrenched  the  nipple  off,  and  the 
carbide,  ignited  with  the  water  that  washed  over 
them,  burnt  with  a  bright  flare.  They  waved  it  fran- 
tically and  tried  to  shout:  but  the  flare  had  been  seen, 
and  presently  out  of  the  darkness  loomed  the  hull  of 
the  Danish  s.s.  Vidar.  Her  captain  brought  the  ship 
alongside  the  raft,  and  one  of  her  boats,  which  had 
already  picked  up  Able  Seaman  Smith  off  his  raft, 
presently  rejoined  them. 

All  survivors  have  testified  to  the  high  courage  of 


"LEST  WE  FORGET"  113' 

Able  Seaman  Hope.  Throughout  the  whole  ordeal 
his  plucky  personality  came  constantly  to  the  fore, 
and  he  alone  retained  strength  to  climb  on  board  the 
Vidar  unaided;  on  reaching  the  upper-deck  he  refused 
to  go  below  or  receive  any  attention  until  the  re- 
mainder of  his  shipmates  had  been  hoisted  on  board. 

The  Vidar  cruised  in  the  vicinity  for  upwards  of 
two  hours  in  the  hope  of  picking  up  further  sur- 
vivors, and  Stoker  Petty  Officer  Filleul  was  seen  float- 
ing on  the  water  and  rescued  as  he  was  losing  con- 
sciousness. No  further  traces  of  the  Shark's  crew 
were  found,  however,  and  the  Vidar  shaped  course 
for  Hull.  On  the  passage  Chief  Stoker  Newcombe, 
who  had  been  wounded  at  the  commencement  of  the 
action,  succumbed  to  exhaustion  in  spite  of  every  en- 
deavour to  save  his  life. 

His  Majesty  the  King,  in  recognition  of  the  valour 
of  the  captain,  officers,  and  men  of  the  Shark,  granted 
Commander  Loftus  W.  Jones  the  only  posthumous 
honour  that  can  be  awarded  in  either  Service,  the 
Victoria  Cross.  The  six  survivors,  each  of  whom 
had  played  his  part  with  the  utmost  gallantry,  were 
decorated  with  the  Distinguished  Service  Medal. 

A  few  weeks  after  the  action  the  fishermen  of  the 
little  village  of  Fiskebackskie  on  the  coast  of  Sweden, 
found  washed  ashore  the  body  of  Commander  W. 
Loftus  Jones,  V.C.  It  was  buried  in  the  village 
churchyard  on  June  24th,  with  every  token  of  sym- 
pathy and  reverence. 


H4  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 


II.    H.M.  DESTROYERS  "SWIFT"  AND  "BROKE" 

1917  found  the  German  public  mentally  in  the 
position  of  a  man  waiting  to  be  hanged.  Any  dis- 
traction was  better  than  the  contemplation  of  the 
future. 

The  aim  of  destroyer  raids  on  Calais  and  Dover 
was  primarily  to  afford  the  German  populace  this 
distraction.  At  the  worst  it  was  intended  to  pro- 
vide headlines  in  the  newspapers  that  bore  some 
semblance  of  naval  success,  and  the  determination 
of  the  German  Government  to  ensure  these  head- 
lines, regardless  of  their  relation  to  facts,  can  be  best 
seen  by  a  comparison  between  the  British  and  Ger- 
man official  communiques  of  such  actions. 

A  merely  spectacular  performance  could  usually  be 
bought  cheaply  enough.  The  two  German  destroyer 
bases  within  striking  distance  of  the  British  coast  are 
Zeebrugge  and  Ostend.  The  latter  is  approximately 
the  same  distance  from  Dover  as  Brighton  is.  Once 
clear  of  their  minefields  on  a  chosen  night  a  German 
force  is  in  the  unique  position  of  knowing  that  every 
single  object  encountered  afloat  is  an  enemy.  Hom- 
ing merchant  traffic  and  patrolling  vessels,  manned 
by  seamen  whose  vigilance  has  been  subjected  to  the 
unrelaxed  tension  of  nearly  three  years'  sea-going 
under  war  conditions,  can  be  fired  on  at  sight. 

A  swift  dash  through  the  darkness,  with  a  finger 
twitching  on  the  trigger  of  every  gun;  any  spot  in 


"LEST  WE  FORGET" 

thirty-five  miles  of  British  coastline  decided  upon  be- 
forehand can  be  reached  in  a  couple  of  hours,  il- 
lumined in  ten  seconds  by  star-shell  for  the  few  min- 
utes required  for  a  futile  bombardment  of  English 
soil — and  the  desired  result  is  achieved. 

One  disadvantage  alone  is  against  Germany,  and 
it  is  one  which  may  be  borne  in  mind  at  a  time  when 
there  is  a  tendency  to  regard  surface  sea-power  as  an 
anachronism.  A  raider  disabled  outside  the  protec- 
tion of  German  minefields  is  a  raider  lost.  Nothing 
can  venture  to  her  succour  within  the  areas  of  the 
successive  British  commands  along  the  coast.  Where 
she  is  crippled  there  she  must  lie,  and,  eventually,  be 
captured.  A  raiding  destroyer  force,  if  caught,  must 
therefore  endeavour  to  escape  at  all  costs. 

This  is  a  consideration  not  without  influence  in 
destroyer  methods  of  attack,  and  the  contrast  be- 
tween British  and  German  tactics  and  traditions  was 
never  better  demonstrated  than  on  the  night  of  April 
2O-2ist,  1917. 

The  movements  of  the  German  raiding  force  on 
the  night  of  April  2Oth  may  or  may  not  have  been 
those  described  in  the  German  communique.  In 
neither  case  have  they  any  bearing  upon  subsequent 
events.  The  British  destroyer  leaders  Swift  and 
Broke,  on  night  patrol  in  the  Channel,  were  proceed- 
ing on  a  westerly  course,  when,  at  12.40  a.m.  the 
Swift  sighted  an  enemy  flotilla,  on  the  port  bow,  pro- 
ceeding in  the  opposite  direction  at  high  speed.  The 
night,  though  calm,  was  intensely  dark,  and  when  first 


n6  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

sighted  the  enemy  were  within  600  yards  range.  Si- 
multaneously the  fire-gongs  on  board  the  German  de- 
stroyers were  heard  to  ripple  down  the  line  and  in  a 
blaze  of  flashes  they  opened  fire. 

The  Swift  instantly  replied,  and  the  commanding 
officer,  Commander  Ambrose  M.  Peck,  decided  with- 
out hesitation  to  ram  the  leading  enemy  destroyer. 
At  his  order  the  wheel  was  wrenched  round,  and  the 
Swift,  with  every  occupant  of  her  bridge  temporarily 
blinded  by  flashes,  drove  straight  for  the  enemy. 

Now  it  must  be  realised  that  the  operation  of 
ramming  one  of  a  line  of  destroyers,  dashing  through 
pitch  darkness  at  between  twenty  and  thirty  knots, 
is  an  exceedingly  delicate  one.  An  initial  miscalcula- 
tion of  a  few  degrees  of  helm,  a  few  revolutions  of 
the  propellers  more  or  less,  spell  failure.  Failure 
may,  and  probably  does,  mean  being  rammed  by  the 
next  boat  in  the  enemy  line. 

The  Swift  missed,  but  shot  through  the  line  un- 
scathed. She  turned  like  a  hawk  upon  a  quarry  and, 
in  turning,  neatly  torpedoed  another  boat  in  the  line. 
Again  she  dashed  at  the  leading  boat,  which  once 
more  eluded  her,  and,  without  firing  another  shot, 
made  off  into  the  darkness  at  full  speed  with  the 
Swift  in  pursuit. 

On  first  sighting  the  enemy,  the  Broke,  commanded 
by  Commander  Edward  R.  G.  R.  Evans,  C.B.,  was 
steaming  about  three  hundred  yards  astern  of  Swift. 
Upon  the  latter  altering  course  to  ram  the  leader, 
the  Broke  launched  a  torpedo  at  the  second  boat  in 


"LEST  WE  FORGET"  117 

the  line,  which  hit  her,  and  then  opened  fire  with 
every  gun  that  would  bear.  The  five  enemy  boats, 
stoking  furiously  for  full  speed,  emitted  a  dull  glow 
from  every  funnel  which  lit  their  upper-works  and 
enabled  the  captain  of  Broke  to  decide  upon  his  tac- 
tics. Altering  course  away  from  the  enemy  for  a 
moment  to  gain  impetus  for  the  blow,  he  swung 
round  to  port  and  rammed  the  third  boat  at  full 
speed,  fair  and  square  abreast  the  after  funnel. 

Locked  together  thus  the  two  boats  fought  a  des- 
perate and  literally  hand-to-hand  conflict.  The  Broke 
swept  the  enemy's  decks  at  point-blank  range  with 
every  gun  from  four-inch  to  pom-pom  and  maxim. 
Lumps  of  coal  and  bowls  of  cocoa  are  mentioned 
among  the  miscellany  of  objects  that  hurtled  through 
the  darkness. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  remaining  two  destroyers  in 
the  German  line  poured  a  devastating  fire  upon  the 
Broke.  The  foremost  guns'  crews  were  reduced  from 
eighteen  men  to  six,  but  Midshipman  Donald  A. 
Gyles,  R.N.R.,  in  charge  of  the  forecastle,  though 
wounded  in  the  eye,  kept  all  foremost  guns  in  action, 
himself  assisting  the  depleted  crews  to  load. 

While  he  was  thus  employed,  a  number  of  fren- 
zied Germans  swarmed  up  over  the  Broke's  fore- 
castle out  of  the  rammed  destroyer,  and  finding 
themselves  amid  the  blinding  flashes  of  the  forecastle 
guns,  swept  aft  in  a  shouting  mob.  The  midshipman, 
amid  the  dead  and  wounded  of  his  gun's  crews  and 
half-blinded  by  blood,  met  the  rush  singlehanded 


n8  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

with  an  automatic  revolver;  he  was  grappled  by  a 
gigantic  German  who  attempted  to  wrest  the  weapon 
from  him. 

Cutlasses  and  rifles  with  fixed  bayonets  being 
among  the  equipment  of  the  foremost  guns'  crews  in 
anticipation  of  just  such  events  as  were  now  taking 
place,  the  German  was  promptly  bayoneted  by  Able 
Seaman  Ingleson.  The  remainder  of  the  invaders, 
with  the  exception  of  two  who  lay  down  and  feigned 
death,  were  driven  over  the  side.  The  two  excep- 
tions were  subsequently  made  prisoners  and  taken  be- 
low to  supper. 

Of  the  original  five  German  destroyers,  there  were 
now  two  remaining  in  the  line.  Two  minutes  after 
ramming,  the  Broke  succeeded  in  wrenching  herself 
free  from  her  sinking  adversary,  and  turned  to  ram 
the  last  boat  in  the  line.  She  failed  in  this  achieve- 
ment, but  as  she  swung  round  succeeded  in  hitting 
this  boat's  consort  on  the  stem  with  a  torpedo. 

Hotly  engaged  with  these  two  fleeing  destroyers, 
the  Broke  then  attempted  to  follow  Swift  in  the  di- 
rection in  which  she  was  last  seen;  a  shell,  however, 
struck  Broke  in  the  boiler-room,  disabling  her  main 
engines.  The  enemy  were  then  lost  to  sight  in  the 
darkness. 

Still  carrying  considerable  way,  Broke  altered 
course  and  headed  in  the  direction  of  a  destroyer 
heavily  on  fire,  whose  crew,  on  sighting  the  Broke, 
sent  up  loud  shouts  for  mercy.  She  was  burning 
fiercely,  and,  regardless  of  the  danger  from  her 


"LEST  WE  FORGET"  119 

magazines  exploding,  Broke  steered  towards  her, 
still  moving  slowly  through  the  water.  The  shouts 
and  cries  of  "Save!  Save!"  were  redoubled,  when 
she  unexpectedly  opened  fire. 

Broke  being  then  out  of  control  and  unable  to 
manoeuvre  or  extricate  herself,  silenced  the  treachery 
with  four  rounds  and  then,  to  ensure  her  own  safety, 
fired  a  torpedo  and  hit  her  amidships. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  Swift  had  continued  her  pur- 
suit of  the  leading  boat  until  injuries  she  had  received 
in  the  earlier  phases  of  the  action,  though  in  them- 
selves slight,  prevented  her  from  maintaining  full 
speed.  She  thereupon  abandoned  the  chase  and 
turned  in  search  of  a  fresh  quarry.  The  outline  of  a 
stationary  destroyer  was  presently  sighted  in  the 
darkness  ahead,  and  as  she  drew  near  a  confused 
noise  of  voices  resolved  itself  intq  more  distinct 
and  evidently  organised  sounds,  as  from  a  large 
number  of  men  shouting  together  in  time. 

Warily,  and  somewhat  perplexed  by  the  uproar, 
the  Swift  approached  with  her  guns  trained  on  the 
stranger.  This  presently  resolved  itself  into  the 
sinking  German  destroyer  that  had  been  rammed  by 
'Broke,  whose  crew  were  bellowing  in  unison: 

UWE  SURRENDER  !  WE  SURRENDER  I" 

With  a  not  unreasonable  suspicion  of  treachery, 
the  Swift  awaited  developments.  Apparently  real- 
ising their  breath  would  be  wanted  for  more  ener- 


120  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

getic  measures,  the  crew  of  the  German  destroyer 
presently  stopped  shouting.  She  heeled  slowly  over, 
while  her  ship's  company  hastily  took  to  the  water, 
and  sank  stern  first. 

As  no  other  enemy  appeared  to  be  in  sight,  and 
the  action,  which  had  lasted  approximately  five  min- 
utes, appeared  to  be  over,  the  Swift  switched  on 
searchlights  and  lowered  boats  to  rescue  the  swim- 
mers. 

Swift  and  Broke  then  proceeded  to  exchange  de- 
tails of  the  "bag"  by  the  medium  of  a  flashing  lamp 
and  (Brake's  circuits  having  been  cut)  an  electric 
torch.  Their  respective  ship's  companies  having 
given  vent  to  some  pardonable  exhilaration  by  cheer- 
ing each  other  out  of  the  darkness  till  they  were 
hoarse,  both  British  destroyers  anchored  and  pa- 
tiently awaited  the  dawn. 

The  British  casualties  were  comparatively  light, 
and  the  spirit  of  the  wounded  is  epitomised  by  the 
conduct  of  the  Brake's  coxswain,  Able  Seaman  Wil- 
liam G.  Rowles ;  this  man,  though  hit  four  times  by 
shrapnel,  remained  at  the  wheel  throughout  the  ac- 
tion, and  finally  only  betrayed  the  fact  that  he  was 
wounded  by  reporting  to  his  captain,  "I'm  going  off 
now,  sir,"  and  fainting. 

A  number  of  wounded  presented  themselves  at  the 
sick-bay  for  the  first  time  on  the  day  following  the 
action.  Their  excuses  for  this  delay  were  various, 
but  that  of  a  stoker  with  a  piece  of  shrapnel  still  in 
his  head  is  perhaps  the  most  ingenuous: 


"LEST  WE  FORGET" 


121 


"I  was  too  busy,  sir,"  he  exclaimed  to  the  sur- 
geon. "Along  of  clearing  up  that  rubbish  on  the 
stoker's  mess-deck." 


III.   THE  DRIFTER  PATROL,  DOVER 

Another  German  destroyer  raid  into  the  English 
Channel  on  the  night  of  February  I4th-i5th,  1918, 
had  for  its  primary  aim  the  destruction  of  the  Aux- 
iliary Patrol  Forces  on  outpost  duty.  This  much 


THE  DOVER  PATROL. 


was  evident  from  the  deliberate  and  systematic  man- 
ner in  which,  once  touch  was  established  in  the  inky 
darkness,  the  attack  was  carried  out.  A  large  force 
was  chosen  for  the  enterprise,  comprising  ten  at  least 
of  Germany's  largest  and  fastest  destroyers;  that 
these  succeeded  in  sinking  seven  armed  fishing  ves- 
sels and  returning  to  their  base  without  being  inter- 
cepted by  the  British  patrols  proper  can  only  be  as- 


122  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

cribed  to  accurate  foreknowledge  of  the  disposition 
of  these  forces  (information  readily  supplied  by 
aerial  reconnaissance) ,  and  the  luck  of  the  Devil  who 
favours  his  own. 

The  raiding  tactics  of  German  destroyers  have 
already  been  described  in  detail.  It  will  be  admitted 
that  they  provide  the  enemy  with  an  initial  advantage 
of  which  he  might  reasonably  be  expected  to  make 
the  most.  Indeed  the  wonder  is  not  so  much  that 
they  were  not  intercepted  in  the  inky  darkness  of  a 
thousand  square  miles,  but  that  they  did  not  make 
more  of  their  opportunity. 

On  the  night  in  question  one  of  the  Drifter  Patrol 
had  sighted  a  submarine  on  the  surface,  attempting 
to  break  through  the  vigilant  cordon  of  patrol  craft. 
Off  went  the  drifter  in  jubilant  pursuit,  signalling  to 
her  consorts  to  join  the  hunt,  and  the  remainder 
joined  her  like  a  pack  of  bassett  hounds  on  the  trail 
of  an  otter.  The  enemy  destroyers,  casting  about 
in  the  darkness,  sighted  the  "Tally-ho!"  rocket  and 
swept  down  upon  the  drifters,  intent  upon  their  own 
business,  from  at  least  four  quarters  simultaneously. 
The  Germans  appear  to  have  worked  in  pairs;  the 
leading  boat  of  each  couple  switched  on  a  blinding 
searchlight  for  the  few  seconds  necessary  to  get  an 
accurate  range,  and  then  the  whole  force  slowed 
down  to  carry  out  the  deliberate  work  of  destruc- 
tion. In  the  words  of  one  of  the  survivors,  "It  was 
awfu' — juist  slaughter."  The  speaker  made  the 
statement  without  heat  or  reproach;  he  was  a  fisher- 


"LEST  WE  FORGET"  123 

man,  as  were  most  of  his  brethren,  wont  to  accept 
both  calamity  and  fortune  without  emotion.  "Girt 
ole  black  things  .  .  ."  he  added,  and  shook  his  griz- 
zled head  so  that  the  sunlight  winked  on  his  gold 
earrings. 

The  enemy  closed  in  nearly  all  cases  to  within  fifty 
yards  of  their  victims,  poured  two  salvos  of  high-ex- 
plosive shell  into  each,  and  passed  on.  They  had  no 
time  for  fancy  shooting  and  there  were  few  misses. 
It  is  to  be  hoped  they  found  the  gruesome  work  to 
their  taste. 

In  one  case  a  German  destroyer  misjudged  her 
distance  and  came  so  close  to  her  victim  that  she  was 
unable  to  depress  her  guns  sufficiently  to  bring  them 
to  bear  on  the  little  target.  She  fired  as  she  rolled 
instead,  and  the  drifter  Cloverbank  turned  on  the  in- 
stant into  a  splintered  shambles,  buried  in  clouds  of 
steam  and  rocketing  sparks.  Only  one  man  survived 
the  first  salvo,  Deckhand  Plane,  R.N.R.  (Trawler 
Section) .  He  blundered  forward  to  the  gun  through 
the  flames  and  fumes  of  bursting  shell,  and  finding  it 
loaded,  returned  the  fire  at  pointblank  range,  single- 
handed,  half-blinded,  stupefied  by  smoke  and  din. 

It  was  brave  work,  but  all  round  him  in  the  dark- 
ness amid  the  flames  of  guns  and  blazing  ships  and  all 
the  savagery  of  that  onslaught,  the  Drifter  Patrol 
was  taking  its  gruel  not  a  whit  less  gallantly.  'The 
survivors  launched  their  splintered  dinghies,  carrying 
their  wounded  with  them,  and  paddled  clear  of  the 
blazing  wrecks  that  a  few  minutes  before  had  been 


• 

124  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

ship  and  home.  The  two  enginemen  of  the  Violet 
May,  Engineman  Ewing  and  Engineman  Noble,  suc- 
ceeded in  launching  their  boat,  and  lowered  into  it  the 
mate,  mortally  wounded,  and  a  wounded  deckhand. 
The  remainder  of  the  crew  lay  inextricably  entangled 
in  the  blazing  wreckage,  dead.  The  survivors  pad- 
dled clear,  waited  till  the  enemy  had  passed  on,  and 
then  closed  their  little  ship  again.  The  fire  had  hold 
of  her  forward,  steam  was  pouring  from  her  wrecked 
engineroom,  and  the  ammunition  was  explod- 
ing broadcast  about  her  decks.  "A  doot  she's  sink- 
in',  "  said  Ewing  stoutly.  Noble  said  nothing:  he 
was  not  given  overmuch  to  speech,  but  he  made  the 
painter  fast  and  proceeded  to  climb  inboard  again. 
Ewing  followed  and  between  they  fought  and  over- 
came the  fire.  "Dinna  leave  me,  Jamie,"  cried  the 
mate  piteously;  "dinna  leave  me  in  the  little  boat." 
"Na,  na,"  was  the  reply.  "We'll  na  leave  ye/'  and 
presently  they  brought  their  wounded  back  on  board 
and  took  them  below  again.  The  mate  was  laid  on 
his  bunk  and  Ewing  fetched  his  shirts  from  his  bag 
and  tore  them  up  into  bandages.  "An1  them  his 
dress  shirts,"  murmured  Noble.  It  was  his  first 
and  last  contribution  to  the  narrative.  They  took 
turn  and  turn  about  to  tend  the  wounded,  plug  the 
shot-holes,  and  quench  the  smouldering  embers  of 
the  fire,  reverently  dragging  the  wreckage  from  off 
their  dead,  and  comforting  the  dying  mate  in  the  soft, 
almost  tender  accents  of  the  Celt. 

"  'Tis  nae  guid,"  said  the  mate  at  last.     "Dinna 


"LEST  WE  FORGET"  125 

fash  about  me,  lads.  A'll  gang  nae  mair  on  patrol," 
and  so  died.  But  they  saved  their  little  ship,  and 
she  lies  in  a  corner  of  the  basin  at  her  base,  a  mass 
of  twisted  metal  and  charred  woodwork,  to  testify 
to  the  courage  of  the  British  fisherman  in  war. 

The  night's  work  counted  for  a  German  victory, 
and  had  it  not  been  for  the  pitiful  braggadocio  of 
the  German  official  communique,  one  would  have  been 
tempted  to  leave  it  at  that.  True  that  seven  little 
fishing  craft  with  a  gun  in  each  bow  would  never 
make  port  again,  but  seven  more  took  their  places 
before  the  sun  was  over  the  horizon  on  the  morrow 
of  the  affair.  Three  score  or  so  of  British  seamen 
had  finished  their  life's  trick  and  passed  to  their 
long  watch  below.  But  England  and  the  Channel 
Patrol  have  the  story  of  their  passing:  the  pity  is 
that  it  must  here  be  so  brief. 

It  was  a  rather  pathetic  gathering  that  mourned 
its  dead  that  Sunday  morning  in  the  grey  church  by 
the  quayside  at  Dover,  with  the  painted  sunlight 
streaming  down  through  the  stained-glass  windows, 
lighting  the  weather-beaten  faces  of  skippers  and 
deckhands,  trimmers  and  enginemen  of  the  Trawler 
Reserve.  There  was,  moreover,  in  their  solemn 
faces  a  trace  of  faint  hurt  bewilderment,  like  that  on 
the  face  of  a  child  that  has  bumped  its  head  in  the 
dark. 

They  were  only  fishermen,  for  all  their  brass  but- 
tons and  blue  uniforms  and  plentiful  display  of 
D.S.C.'s  and  D.S.M.'s;  simple  folk  accustomed  to 


126  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

judge  life  by  its  tangible  results.  They  were  not 
concerned  with  strategy  or  the  might-have-been. 
They  had  been  accustomed  to  look  to  their  big  broth- 
ers, the  destroyers,  in  the  simple  faith  of  children 
when  there  was  trouble,  and  for  once  it  seemed  they 
had  looked  in  vain.  They  had  had  a  drubbing,  and 
they  took  it  according  to  the  tradition  of  British  sea- 
men; but  the  puzzled,  grieving  look  remained. 

The  captain  of  the  Drifter  Patrol  marched  them 
away  from  the  church  and  talked  to  them,  standing 
on  a  drum  of  paint  in  the  more  familiar  environment 
of  coils  of  wire,  floats,  nets,  mine-cases,  and  all  the 
grim  impedimenta  of  their  calling.  It  was  in  no  sense 
of  the  word  a  speech,  but  it  was  a  very  moving  little 
address.  "Never  fear,"  he  concluded;  "we'll  take 
tea  with  the  Hun  before  you're  all  much  older,  or 
I'll  eat  my  hat."  It  takes  a  brave  man  to  prophesy 
concerning  war  these  days,  but  the  men  of  the  Drift- 
er Patrol  stumped  back  to  their  little  craft  comfort- 
ed, and,  as  events  transpired,  he  was  right. 

In  the  dark  hour  preceding  etew«  on  March  2ist 
(five  weeks  later)  the  British  destroyers  Botha 
\(  Commander  Roger  L'  E.  M.  Rede,  R.N.)  and 
'Morris  (Lieutenant-Commander  Percy  R.  P.  Perci- 
val,  R.N.),  and  the  three  French  destroyers  Mehl, 
Magon,  and  Bouclier  were  on  patrol  in  the  eastern 
waters  of  the  Channel,  when  a  sudden  outburst  of 
firing  was  heard  to  the  northward.  Vivid  flashes  of 
gunfire  out  to  sea  made  it  plain  that  the  enemy  was 


"LEST  WE  FORGET"  127 

engaged  upon  a  futile  bombardment  of  the  crumbling 
bathing-sheds  of  deserted  French  watering-places. 

The  Allied  force  promptly  made  for  the  flashes  at 
full  speed,  led  by  Botha;  star  shell  fired  in  an  en- 
deavour to  light  up  the  enemy  and  obtain  their  range 
however  merely  had  the  effect  of  quelling  the  bom- 
bardment and  scattering  the  raiders,  who  were  never 
seen  again. 

The  patrolling  force  then  proceeded  to  search  to 
the  northwestward  in  the  hope  of  intercepting  any 
divisions  of  the  enemy  who  had  ventured  more  into 
mid-channel;  star  shell  were  fired  at  intervals,  for 
the  night  was  misty,  and  presently  one  of  these  burst- 
ing ahead  revealed  the  shadowy  outline  of  a  force  of 
enemy  destroyers  and  torpedo  boats  sneaking  off 
through  the  darkness  in  the  direction  of  their  base. 

The  Botha  challenged,  and  an  unfamiliar  reply 
winked  at  them  out  of  the  night;  the  next  instant 
British  and  French  were  pouring  a  heavy  fire  into 
the  enemy.  For  a  few  minutes  a  grim  little  fight  en- 
sued. The  Allies  rapidly  overhauled  the  raiders,  and 
set  the  darkness  ablaze  with  flashes  of  gunfire  and 
blazing  wreckage  flying  broadcast  from  shell  burst- 
ing on  impact.  A  running  fight  between  torpedo 
craft  is  like  a  battle  between  scorpions;  whichever 
gets  a  sting  home  first  rarely  has  need  to  strike  again. 
None  of  the  German  torpedoes  found  their  mark, 
but  the  Morris,  emerging  from  a  smoke  screen  flung 
out  by  the  fleeing  enemy,  cut  off  a  German  destroyer 
of  a  large  type  and  torpedoed  her  at  500  yards 


128  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

range.  She  blew  up  and  sank  almost  immediately, 
heeling  over  amid  clouds  of  steam  and  vanishing 
stern  first. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Botha's  main  steampipe  had 
been  severed  by  a  stray  shell  and  she  immediately 
commenced  to  lose  her  way  through  the  water.  Her 
commander,  realising  that  if  he  was  to  finish  his  "cup 
of  tea  with  the  Hun"  he  must  needs  drink  it  quickly, 
fired  both  torpedoes  at  the  leading  boats,  and,  put- 
ting his  helm  hard  over,  rammed  the  fourth  boat  in 
the  line  cleanly  amidships.  His  speed  had  dropped 
considerably,  but  it  sufficed  to  drive  the  knife-edged 
bows  of  the  Botha  clean  through,  cutting  the  enemy 
completely  in  half. 

Botha  then  swung  round  and  attempted  to  repeat 
the  coup  on  the  next  astern;  the  Hun  succeeded  in 
eluding  the  Botha's  crippled  onslaught,  but  fell  a 
victim  to  the  French  destroyers.  She  lay  disabled 
and  ablaze,  and  they  closed  and  pounded  the  flaming 
wreck  with  torpedo  and  gun  fire  as  a  man  grinds  a 
dead  snake  under  his  heel. 

Morris  by  this  time  had  relinquished  the  pursuit, 
having  lost  the  quarry  in  the  smoke  and  mist;  she  re- 
turned to  the  scene  of  action,  and  took  her  lame  sis- 
ter in  tow  while  the  French  destroyers  circled  round 
in  the  grey  dawn  picking  up  prisoners.  From  state- 
ments made  by  these,  it  appears  that  no  less  then 
eighteen  torpedo  craft  had  sallied  forth  for  the  raid. 
They  were  unhesitatingly  attacked  and  rather  badly 
mauled  by  two  British  and  three  French  destroyers 


"LEST  WE  FORGET"  129 

and  fled  (as  one  of  the  British  officers  picturesquely 
described  it)  like  scalded  dogs. 

The  adventures  of  the  remaining  fifteen  were  by 
no  means  terminated  when  they  quitted  French  wa- 
ters, leaving  three  of  their  number  behind.  A  squad- 
ron of  the  R.N.A.S.  bombing  machines  proceeding 
up  the  coast  on  business  sighted  the  homing  German 
flotillas  and  fell  upon  them — or  rather,  suffered  their 
bombs  to  do  so.  They  reported  having  completely 
thrown  the  enemy  into  disorder  and  scattered  them 
in  all  directions.  A  squadron  of  enemy  seaplanes 
that  had  gone  out  at  dawn  to  look  for  the  wanderers 
then  encountered  the  escort  fighters  of  the  bombing 
machines,  and  in  a  very  short  time  had  their  num- 
bers reduced  by  four.  Of  these,  three  were  account- 
ed for  by  one  British  pilot. 

It  must  have  been  with  feelings  of  more  than  ordi- 
nary relief  that  the  German  torpedo  force  sighted 
the  long  grey  mole  of  Ostend  Harbour  through  the 
morning  mist.  But  even  then  their  nerves  had  yet 
another  ordeal  to  face.  Something  rushed  across 
the  face  of  the  water  in  a  cloud  of  spray  apparently 
from  nowhere,  a  sinister  unseen  thing  travelling  at 
incredible  speed.  A  torpedo  struck  the  stern  of  one 
of  the  German  destroyers,  and  the  cloud  of  spray 
tore  away  through  a  hail  of  shell  and  bullets,  un- 
scathed, and  vanished  in  the  mist. 


130  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 


iv.     H.M.S.  "MARY  ROSE." 

H.M.S.  Mary  Rose  left  a  Norwegian  port  in 
charge  of  a  west-bound  convoy  of  merchant  ships  in 
the  afternoon  of  October  i6th,  1917.  At  dawn  on 
the  iyth,  from  her  position  ten  or  twelve  miles  ahead 
of  the  convoy,  flashes  of  gunfire  were  sighted  astern. 
The  captain  of  the  Mary  Rose,  Lieutenant-Com- 
mander Charles  Fox,  who  was  on  the  bridge  at  the 
time,  remarked  that  he  supposed  it  was  a  submarine 
shelling  the  convoy,  and  promptly  turned  his  ship  to 
investigate;  all  hands  were  called  to  action  stations. 
Mary  Rose  had  increased  to  full  speed,  and  in  a 
short  time  three  light  cruisers  were  sighted  coming 
towards  them  at  high  speed  out  of  the  morning  mist; 
Mary  Rose  promptly  challenged,  and  receiving  no 
reply,  opened  fire  with  every  gun  that  would  bear  at 
a  range  of  about  four  miles.  The  German  light 
cruisers  appeared  to  have  been  nonplussed  by  this 
determined  single-handed  onslaught,  as  they  did  not 
return  the  fire  until  the  range  had  closed  to  three 
miles.  They  then  opened  fire,  and  the  Mary  Rose 
held  gallantly  on  through  a  barrage  of  bursting 
shell  until  only  a  mile  separated  her  from  the  enemy. 
Up  to  this  point  the  German  marksmanship  was  poor, 
but  as  the  British  destroyer  turned  to  bring  her  tor- 
pedo tubes  to  bear,  a  salvo  struck  her,  bursting  in 
the  engine-room,  a'nd  leaving  her  disabled,  a  log  on 
the  water.  All  guns,  with  the  exception  of  the  after 


"LEST  WE  FORGET"  131 

one,  were  out  of  action,  and  their  crews  killed  or 
wounded,  but  the  after  gun  continued  in  action  un- 
der the  direction  of  Sub-Lieutenant  Marsh,  R.N. 
y.R.,  as  long  as  the  gun  would  bear.  The  captain 
came  down  from  the  wrecked  bridge  and  passed  aft, 
encouraging  and  cheering  his  deafened  men.  He 
stopped  beside  the  wrecked  remains  of  the  midship 
gun  and  shouted  to  the  survivors  of  its  crew :  "God 
bless  my  heart,  lads,  get  her  going  again,  we're  not 
done  yet  I" 

The  enemy  were  now  pouring  a  concentrated  fire 
into  the  motionless  vessel.  One  of  the  boilers,  struck 
by  a  shell,  exploded,  and  through  the  inferno  of  es~ 
caping  steam,  smoke,  and  the  vapour  of  bursting 
shell,  came  that  familiar,  cheery  voice:  "We're  not 
done  yet." 

As  the  German  light  cruisers  sped  past,  two  able 
seamen  (Able  Seaman  French  and  Able  Seaman 
Bailey),  who  alone  survived  among  the  torpedo 
tubes'  crews,  on  their  own  initiative  laid  and  fired 
the  remaining  torpedo.  Able  Seaman  French  was 
killed  immediately,  and  Able  Seaman  Bailey  badly 
wounded.  Realising  that  the  enemy  had  passed 
ahead,  and  that  the  4-inch  gun  could  no  longer  be 
brought  to  bear  on  them,  the  captain  set  about  de- 
stroying his  ciphers.  The  First  Lieutenant  (Lieu- 
tenant Bavin),  seeing  one  of  the  light  cruisers  re- 
turning towards  them,  called  the  gunner  and  bade 
him  sink  the  ship.  The  captain  tnen  gave  the  order, 
"Abandon  ship."  All  the  boats  had  been  shattered 


132  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

by  shell  fire  at  their  davits,  but  the  survivors  launched 
a  Carley  raft  and  paddled  clear  of  the  ship.  The 
German  light  cruiser  detailed  to  administer  the  coup 
de  grace  then  approached  to  within  300  yards  and 
poured  a  succession  of  salvos  into  the  already  riddled 
hull.  The  Mary  Rose  sank  at  7.15  a.m.  with  col- 
ours flying.  The  captain,  first  lieutenant,  and  gunner 
were  lost  with  the  ship,  but  the  handful  of  survivors, 
in  charge  of  Sub-Lieutenant  J.  R.  D.  Freeman,  on 
the  Carley  raft,  fell  in  some  hours  later  with  a  life- 
boat belonging  to  one  of  the  ships  of  the  convoy. 
Sailing  and  rowing,  they  made  the  Norwegian  coast 
some  forty-eight  hours  later,  and  were  tended  with 
the  utmost  kindness  by  the  Norwegian  authorities. 
All  survivors  unite  in  testifying  to  the  cheerful  cour- 
age of  the  senior  surviving  officer,  Sub-Lieutenant 
Freeman,  throughout  the  last  phase  of  this  ordeal. 
Able  Seaman  Bailey,  who,  despite  severe  shrapnel 
wounds  in  the  leg,  persisted  in  taking  his  turn  at  the 
oar,  is  also  specially  mentioned  for  an  invincible 
light-heartedness  throughout. 

The  distinguished  naval  critics  with  whose  assist- 
ance we  are  wont  to  belittle  the  achievements  of  our 
Navy,  will  have  doubtless  much  to  say  about  this 
action.  From  the  point  of  view  of  tactics,  it  lies 
open  to  unquestionable  criticism.  Unhappily,  there 
is  no  record  of  what  was  in  the  mind  of  the  captain 
of  the  Mary  Rose  when  he  made  that  single-handed 
dash  in  the  face  of  such  preposterous  odds.  The  con- 
voy which  was  in  his  charge  lay  ahead  of  him,  and, 


"LEST  WE  FORGET"  133 

as  he  apparently  supposed,  was  being  attacked  by  the 
gunfire  of  a  hostile  submarine.  When,  on  rushing 
to  the  rescue,  he  realised  that  it  was  to  meet  not  a 
submarine,  but  three  of  Germany's  newest  and  fast- 
est light  cruisers,  it  is  conceivable  that  the  original 
intention  of  rescue  was  not  supplanted  in  his  mind  by 
considerations  of  higher  strategy.  He  held  on  un- 
flinchingly, and  he  died,  leaving  to  the  annals  of  his 
service  an  episode  not  less  glorious  than  that  in 
which  Sir  Richard  Greville  perished. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  FEET  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN 

HE  was  nearer  seventy  than  sixty:  that  is  to  say, 
he  was  an  old  man  as  they  reckon  age  afloat. 
There  was  a  stoop  about  his  shoulders  that  hinted 
at  the  burden  of  his  years,  but  his  eyes,  blue  and  di- 
rect beneath  ragged  white  eyebrows,  were  young 
enough;  and  a  man's  eyes  are  the  mirrors  of  his 
spirit. 

He  stood  on  the  quarter-deck  of  the  armed  yacht 
under  his  command,  pacing  slowly  to  and  fro,  with 
those  craggy  brows  almost  meeting  above  his  great 
beak  of  a  nose.  There  had  been  a  day  when  a  fleet 
would  have  trembled  at  the  portent,  and  walked  deli- 
cately, like  Agag.  That  was  when  he  was  an  admiral 
though,  and  the  flag-lieutenant  would  have  popped 
his  head  into  the  secretary's  cabin  and  murmured, 
"Blowing  up  for  a  storm — stand  by!"  Now,  as  he 
stalked  with  that  unforgettable  jerky  stride  of  his 
up  and  down  the  narrow  confine  of  the  yacht's  poop, 
he  was  only  a  commander  of  the  Royal  Naval  Re- 
serve— a  "dug-out"  from  the  Retired  List — with 
three  curly  rings  of  lace  on  the  cuffs  of  a  monkey- 
jacket  cut  in  a  style  unfamiliar  to  the  present  genera- 
tion. 

134 


THE  FEET  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN     135 

Aft  by  the  ensign-staff  he  halted,  and  pulled  a  let- 
ter out  of  the  breast-pocket  of  the  quaintly-cut  mon- 
key-jacket. It  had  come  by  the  morning  mail,  a  type- 
written letter,  on  paper  bearing  the  crest  of  Admiral- 
ty, and  it  was  worded  as  tactfully  as  circumstances 
and  the  nature  of  the  contents  would  allow.  It  re- 
ferred to  the  strain  of  war  under  modern  conditions. 
It  reminded  the  Admiral  that  a  critical  stage  of  the 
world  conflict  had  now  been  reached;  and  the  two 
postulates  taken  in  conjunction  pointed  to  the  neces- 
sity for  young  men  being  employed  in  all  commands 
afloat.  Their  lordships  had  therefore  decided,  with 
regret  .  .  .  etc.  etc. 

That  letter  did  what  the  strain  of  modern  war  had 
not  yet  done — it  made  the  Admiral's  hand  tremble : 
he  tore  it  into  small  pieces  and  dropped  them  over 
the  side.  The  stoop  of  his  old  shoulders  seemed  to 
have  become  suddenly  accentuated.  His  firm  mouth 
slackened:  he  looked  what  they  said  he  was,  an  old 
man. 

"Youth  will  be  served,"  said  he,  and  watched  the 
last  scrap  of  paper  float  away  on  the  tide.  "I  dare- 
say they  know  best.  .  .  .  They  think  they  do  ... 
anyway,  that's  something,  nowadays."  Then  he  drew 
forth  an  enormous  bandana  handkerchief,  trumpeted 
a  blast  of  defiance  from  his  historic  nose,  and 
stumped  forward  to  the  bridge  to  take  his  last  com- 
mand to  sea  for  the  last  time. 


136  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

It  was  late  the  following  afternoon,  when  the 
yacht  was  upon  the  port  bow  of  a  convoy  of  mer- 
chantmen, that  the  look-out  at  the  crosstrees  gave 
tongue.  The  Admiral  was  in  the  chart-house, 
sprawling  affectionately  over  the  chart  with  notebook 
and  pencil.  He  enjoyed  having  the  chart-house  to 
himself  these  days.  The  flag-captains  and  naviga- 
tors of  bygone  flagships  had  always  bored  him,  fuss- 
ing at  either  elbow  whenever  he  looked  at  a 
chart.  .  .  . 

"Periscope  port  bow!"  bawled  the  lookout,  and 
simultaneously  the  alarm  gongs  jarred  at  every  gun 
position  and  action  station.  The  Admiral  was  be- 
side the  quartermaster  in  two  bounds. 

"There  she  goes,  sir,"  cried  the  officer  of  the 
watch,  and  indicated  with  outstretched  finger  the 
wicked  streak  of  bubbles  that  flickered  in  the  wake 
of  a  torpedo :  it  passed  ahead,  but  through  his  glasses 
the  Admiral  was  watching  the  sparkling  water  for 
the  periscope's  feather. 

He  sighted  it  almost  on  the  instant,  half  a  mile 
abeam,  an  object  no  bigger  than  a  broom-handle 
above  the  wave-tops. 

Once,  thirty  years  before,  in  a  moment  of  crisis, 
he  had  acted  as  he  did  then.  It  was  a  wholly  un- 
constitutional proceeding,  but  on  the  former  occasion 
it  had  averted  a  collision  between  two  battleships  of 
the  line.  On  both  occasions  it  saved  a  few  precious 
seconds.  He  grasped  the  spokes  of  the  wheel  with 
his  own  hands  and  wrenched  the  helm  hard-a-star- 


THE  FEET  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN     137 

board  before  the  quartermaster  realised  he  was  at 
his  elbow. 

The  officer  of  the  watch  had  sprung  to  the  tele- 
graph, and  down  below  the  gongs  were  ringing  mad- 
ly for  full  speed. 

The  yacht's  owner  had  built  her  for  speed.  He 
was  a  rich  man,  and  could  afford  to  gratify  a  whim. 
In  this  case  he  gratified  it  to  the  utmost  designer  and 
engineers  were  capable  of ;  but  never  till  this  moment 
had  a  rich  man's  craze  been  so  completely  justified. 
Her  knife-edge  swan  bows  clove  the  dancing  waves 
in  twin  sickles  of  spray  as  she  heeled  over  to  her 
helm  and  then  steadied  on  the  mark  that  was  already 
swiftly  dipping  before  the  unexpected  onslaught. 

The  periscope  vanished  thirty  seconds  before  the 
yacht  passed  over  the  wash  of  the  unseen  scourge: 
but  as  it  passed  the  Admiral  jerked  a  lever  twice, 
and  turned,  staring  aft  down  the  broken  wake  that 
had  obliterated  all  traces  of  the  submarine.  By 
means  of  the  lever  he  had  released  a  couple  of  ex- 
plosive charges,  and  as  he  stood  shading  his  eyes 
from  the  sun,  two  great  columns  of  foam  leaped  in- 
to the  air. 

"Hard-a-starboard  I"  he  croaked,  and  over  went 
the  helm  again.  He  stepped  to  the  gun  control  voice- 
pipe:  "Stand  by  the  port  guns!"  and  as  he  gave  the 
order  a  greenish-brown  cylindrical  shape,  streaked 
with  rust  and  spouting  oil  from  gaping  seams,  ap- 
peared in  the  centre  of  the  boiling  scum  and  foam 
left  by  the  explosion.  Slowly  it  righted  itself,  and 


138  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

the  hull  and  conning-tower  of  a  submarine  lay  on  the 
surface  with  a  heavy  list.  As  the  yacht  swung  round, 
the  port  guns  opened  fire:  a  shell  burst  on  the  ar- 
moured conning-tower,  shattering  the  periscope  and 
blowing  great  fragments  of  steel  high  into  the  air. 
Another  penetrated  the  hull  and  exploded  internally, 
clouds  of  vapour  pouring  from  the  rents  in  the  shell. 
The  coxswain  steadied  the  wheel,  heading  the  bows 
straight  for  the  great  whale-like  object. 

Now  the  cunning  of  an  old  seaman  is  the  cunning 
of  a  grey  fox.  The  Admiral  held  up  his  hand,  and 
the  officer  of  the  watch  jerked  the  telegraphs  to 
"stop."  The  stern  of  a  vessel  driven  at  high  speed 
is  drawn  down  by  the  thrust  of  the  propellers.  The 
moment  the  engines  stop,  the  stern  rises  again  and 
the  bows  dip.  In  this  case  they  dipped  as  they  struck 
the  submarine  squarely  just  abaft  the  conning-tower, 
and  clove  through  the  rounded  hull  like  a  hatchet 
through  a  fungus. 

They  had  a  glimpse  on  either  bow  of  the  halves 
of  a  submarine,  still  kept  afloat  by  the  buoyancy  of 
her  tanks  and  closed  compartments.  It  was  only  a 
momentary  glimpse — of  glistening,  shattered  machin- 
ery and  mangled  bodies,  of  hands  raised  in  prayer  or 
anguish.  .  .  .  Then  both  broadsides  broke  out,  pour- 
ing a  salvo  at  pointblank  range  into  those  smoking 
segments  that  vanished  amid  the  flames  of  bursting 
shell  and  leaping  water. 

They  rescued  one  prisoner — as  is  not  infrequently 
the  case,  the  captain.  Him  the  Admiral  caused  to 


THE  FEET  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN     139 

be  warmed  and  dried  and  restored  with  hot  drinks 
while  the  yacht,  assisted  by  two  destroyers,  rounded 
up  the  scattered  convoy.  Then  the  Admiral  interro- 
gated his  prisoner.  "You  are  very  young,"  he  said 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  interview. 

The  Prussian  clicked  his  heels.  "It  is  a  young 
man's  war/'  he  said. 

"So  they  tell  me,"  replied  the  Admiral  dryly. 

His  relief  was  waiting  on  the  quay  beside  his  bag- 
gage when  the  yacht — her  dainty  bows  looking  like 
the  features  of  a  professional  pugilist — tripped  back 
to  harbour.  He  was  a  young  lieutenant-commander, 
fresh  from  the  Grand  Fleet — a  contemporary,  in 
fact,  of  the  Admiral's  son.  And  early  the  following 
morning  the  Admiral  went  over  the  side — not  as  he 
might  have  done  ten  years  earlier,  with  guard  and 
band,  to  the  shrill  twitter  of  a  pipe.  He  paused  at 
the  gangway,  and  laid  his  left  hand  on  the  younger 
man's  shoulder. 

"The  race  is  to  the  swift,"  he  said,  "the  battle  to 
the  strong.  Good  luck  to  you,  my  lad.  You  want  a 
bigger  gun  forward,  if  you  can  get  'em  to  give  it  to 
you,  and  remember  she  turns  quicker  on  port  helm. 
.  .  .  She's  a  good  little  ship." 

"Thank  you  awfully,  sir,"  said  the  lieutenant- 
commander.  "She's  a  ripping  little  ship,  and  I'm 
only  sorry  I'm " 

The  Admiral  doffed  his  cap  after  the  manner  in 
which  a  forgotten  naval  generation  saluted. 


140 


THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 


"Be  damned  to  your  sorrow,  sir,"  he  said.  "It's 
a  young  man's  war,"  and  turned  to  descend  the  lad- 
der to  the  dinghy  that  waited  alongside. 


THE  FEET   OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN. 


CHAPTER  VI 

GIPSIES  OF  THE  SEA 

AUGUST  4th,  1914,  probably  found  the  yachts- 
men of  Great  Britain  less  unprepared  for  war 
with  Germany  than  any  other  civilian  community 
in  the  Empire. 

Men  turn  to  the  sea  as  a  profession  for  a  variety 
of  reasons ;  but  the  amateur  yachtsman  embraced  the 
sea  as  a  mistress  with  a  complete  and  very  genuine 
passion.  To  those  who  seek  her  thus,  the  sea  has 
much  to  tell;  she  will  whisper  a  thousand  secrets 
'twixt  dusk  and  dawn  to  the  little  ships  resting  snug 
in  her  curlew-haunted  creeks,  or  riding  lazy  to  a  long 
cable  in  the  lee  of  desolate  sand-banks — things  de- 
nied to  the  busy  wayfarer  on  her  wide  thoroughfares. 

141 


142  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

Yachtsmen  as  a  class  are  meditative  folk.  A  man 
who  spends  his  week-ends  alone,  or  in  the  company 
of  one  other  in  a  three-ton  yacht,  has  opportunities 
for  reflection  denied  to  the  devotees  of  other  pursuits. 
He  learns  more  than  the  ways  of  the  tides  and  Pri- 
mus stoves. 

In  the  queer,  uneasy  tranquillity  of  the  decade  be- 
fore the  war  there  came  in  gradually  increasing  num- 
bers to  our  east  and  south-east  coasts  an  unobtrusive 
visitor.  Few  people  encountered  him,  because  he 
chose  sequestered  places  to  visit,  but  the  yachtsman 
met  him,  talked  much  with  him,  and  afterwards  sat 
in  the  cuddy  and  smoked  many  pipes,  thinking  about 
him  and  his  unholy  thirst  for  information. 

There  were  other  yachtsmen,  of  a  more  restless 
and  inquiring  turn  of  mind,  who  went  farther  afield 
with  lead-line  and  compass,  "observin*  'ow  the  world 
was  made."  Where  the  short  yellow  seas  stumbled 
across  leagues  of  shoals,  and  windmills  and  the 
brown  sails  of  barges  broke  the  sky-line  above  low- 
lying  sand-hills,  they  learned  and  saw  many  things. 
One  even  wrote  a  book  about  these  things,1  that  he 
who  ran  might  read.  The  trouble  was  that  people 
ashore  entrusted  with  the  destinies  of  Empire  were 
running  about  so  busily  that  they  hadn't  time  to  read. 
They  were  catching  votes  and  such-like,  as  children 
snatch  at  falling  leaves  in  autumn.  So  the  yachts- 
man carried  on  yachting  and  cultivating  the  acquaint- 
ance of  the  slow-speaking,  slow-moving  shippers  of 

1Tke  Riddle  of  the  Sands. 


GIPSIES  OF  THE  SEA  143 

the  coast-wise  traffic  and  the  crab-gaited  community 
that  manned  the  east-coast  fishing  craft.  Useful 
men  to  know  sometimes  at  the  pinch  of  a  sudden 
crisis. 

Then,  with  the  red  dawn  of  August  4th,  1914, 
came  war  at  last,  and  the  yachtsman  pulled  a  deep 
breath  of  something  like  relief,  knocked  out  the  ashes 
of  his  pipe,  and  went  ashore,  forbearing  to  say  "I 
told  you  so"  to  the  harassed  Whitehall  officials  he 
went  in  search  of.  This  was  a  war  of  the  sea,  and 
the  yachtsman  clewed  up  his  business  ashore,  sent 
his  wife  to  stay  with  her  mother,  and  placed  all  his 
knowledge  of  the  coasts  of  Northern  Europe  and 
the  seas  between  them  at  the  disposal  of  the  Navy. 

Now  the  Navy  was  very  busy.  Like  the  yachts- 
man, it  had  not  been  altogether  blind  to  signs  and 
portents,  because  the  sea  is  a  wonderful  conductor 
of  electricity — and  other  things.  But  it  had  its  own 
theories  on  naval  warfare:  among  others  it  opined 
that,  properly  speaking,  this  was  an  affair  of  big 
ships  and  frequent  battles.  To  fight  battles  you  re- 
quire dexterity  in  the  use  of  weapons — highly  scien- 
tific and  technical  weapons  at  that.  They  themselves 
had  been  learning  to  wield  these  weapons  since  they 
were  twelve  years  old  or  thereabouts.  The  yachts- 
man's acquaintance  with  lethal  arms  was  limited  to 
a  12-bore  scatter-gun  and  a  revolver,  with  which  he 
enlivened  Sunday  afternoons  becalmed  by  potting  at 
empty  bottles. 

ujust  wait  till  we've  mopped  up  these  fellows  in 


144  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

the  North  Sea,"  said  the  Navy — "it  won't  take  long 
— and  then  we'll  talk  things  over,  old  chap." 

So  the  yachtsman  waited,  and  after  a  while  the 
Navy  found  itself  waiting,  because  the  fellows  in 
the  North  Sea  had  retired  to  Kiel,  thumped  their 
chests  and  said  they  were  waiting  too.  Thus  modern 
naval  warfare  developed  from  glowing  theory  into 
rather  wearisome  fact. 

The  yachtsman  had  not  been  altogether  idle  in 
the  meanwhile.  He  manned  every  available  motor- 
boat  in  the  kingdom,  and  patrolled  the  coast  under 
the  White  Ensign  with  a  rifle  and  a  rather  compli- 
cated signalling  apparatus.  When  the  supply  of  mo- 
tor-boats ran  out,  the  wealthier  yachtsmen  built  their 
own,  fitted  them  out  at  their  own  expense,  and 
manned  them.  They  manned  them  indiscriminately: 
one  was  a  captain,  another  was  a  deck-hand,  and  yet 
another  club-mate  the  engineer.  It  mattered  not  a 
whit  how  or  where  a  man  served  as  long  as  the  spray 
was  in  their  faces  and  the  dawn  came  up  out  of  their 
beloved  sea.  They  messed  together  in  cheerful  com- 
munism, save  when  they  found  themselves  under  the 
immediate  observation  of  the  brass-bound  Navy. 
Then  they  grew  self-conscious  and  the  captain  fed 
in  splendid  isolation:  the  deck-hand,  who  was  his 
next-door  neighbour  in  Surbiton  and  owned  a  bigger 
yacht,  touched  his  cap  when  he  spoke  and  called  him 


"sir." 


The  Navy  noted  these  things  and  smiled — not  de- 
risively, but  with  affection,  as  men  smile  at  dogs  and 


GIPSIES  OF  THE  SEA  145; 

children.  But  it  was  also  keenly  observant:  it  was 
taking  the  measure  of  these  enthusiastic  amateurs, 
without  undue  haste,  deliberately,  parting  reluctantly 
with  ancient  prejudice  and  shibboleth.  This  is  the 
Navy's  way. 

The  motor-boats  did  their  work  consistently  well 
and  without  ostentation.  They  conducted  an  efficient 
examination  service  among  the  teeming  coast-wise 
traffic  of  the  south-east  coast,  through  which  not  a 
needle  could  have  been  smuggled  in  a  bargeload  of 
hay:  this  was  a  duty  for  which  the  yachtsman  was 
admirably  suited.  It  required  tact,  for  the  pre-war 
coaster  was  a  touchy  fellow  and  accustomed  to  keep 
himself  to  himself:  furthermore,  it  called  for  inti- 
mate co-operation  with  the  Custom  officers  of  coast 
and  estuary  ports ;  but  these  the  yachtsmen  had  known 
and  drunk  a  pot  of  beer  with  any  time  during  the 
past  five-and-twenty  years. 

The  motor-boats  found  themselves  shepherding 
wayward  fishing  fleets  out  of  forbidden  waters  sud- 
denly hedged  about  with  incomprehensible  prohibi- 
tions; they  guarded  them  on  their  lawful  occasions; 
and  because  they  knew  them  and  their  fathers  be- 
fore them,  knew  also  when  to  caution  wrong-doers 
and  when  to  confiscate  nets  and  sails.  This,  it  may 
be  remarked  in  passing,  is  a  wisdom  not  learned  in 
paths  ashore  nor  yet  in  the  training  colleges  of  the 
Navy.  They  served  as  tenders  to  the  big  ships  and 
towed  targets  for  the  smaller  ones.  They  brought 
battle  cruisers  their  love-letters,  and  acquired  both 


146  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

skill  and  cunning  in  sinking  floating  mines  with  rifle- 
fire. 

Thus,  in  due  course,  was  their  probation  accom- 
plished. The  Navy  had  observed  it  all,  mostly  with- 
out comment  or  eulogy.  But  when  the  time  was  ripe 
it  produced  a  standardised  type  of  motor  patrol  boat, 
armed  and  equipped  in  all  respects  as  little  men-of- 
war. 

"Now,"  said  the  Navy  to  the  yachtsman,  "shake 
hands  as  one  of  us,  and  then  suffer  us  to  train  you 
for  a  little  while — even  to  putting  you  wise  about 
depth-charges  and  Hotchkiss  guns — ere  you  have 
your  heart's  desire." 

The  yachtsmen  leant  an  ear  to  the  Navy  Staff  In- 
structors (wise  men  from  a  torpedo  school  called 
the  "Vernon")  with  eager  willingness.  "But  where," 
asked  the  Navy,  "are  the  rest  of  you?  There  aren't 
enough  to  go  round  the  boats  we've  ordered." 

The  yachtsmen,  labouring  at  applied  mechanics 
and  the  true  inwardness  of  high-explosive  bombs, 
said  nothing.  There  had  been  a  time  when  their 
numbers  would  have  more  than  sufficed  for  all  the 
country's  needs.  But  some  were  lying  under  the 
sandy  soil  of  Gallipoli,  or  the  marshes  of  Flanders, 
and  others  were  whittling  model  yachts  out  of  bits 
of  wood  in  Dutch  internment  camps :  the  roll  of  hon- 
our in  well-nigh  every  yacht  club  in  the  kingdom  sup- 
plied the  answer.  The  matter  was  not  one  for  either 
cavil  or  regret.  A  man  can  die  but  once,  and  so 


GIPSIES  OF  THE  SEA  147 

long  as  he  dies  gloriously  the  region  of  discussion  as. 
to  his  whereabouts  is  passed. 

Then  came  the  oversea  gipsies  to  fill  the  vacant 
places  of  those  of  their  brethren  who  had  finished 
their  last  long  trick.  From  Auckland,  Sydney,  and 
Winnipeg  they  came;  from  Vancouver,  Wellington, 
Toronto,  and  Montreal.  They  were  strangers  to 
Crouch  and  Solent,  but  the  yachtsmen  of  England 
welcomed  them  into  the  mysterious  indissoluble  free- 
masonry of  all  sea-lovers,  which  under  the  White 
Ensign  is  called  to-day  the  R.N.V.R. 

Now,  of  their  achievements  in  the  Motor  Boat 
Patrol  worthier  pens  than  mine  have  written.  They 
have  endured  monotony — which  is  the  lot  of  many 
in  modern  war — and,  what  is  more  difficult,  have 
maintained  their  efficiency  and  enthusiasm  through- 
out. They  perform  duties  which  are  in  no  way  con- 
nected with  glory  in  any  shape  or  form,  and  have 
been  content  to  wait  their  turn  for  greater  things 
with  willing  cheerfulness.  And  some  have  attained 
that  glory,  buying  it  lightly  at  the  price  of  life. 

Thus  far  we  have  attempted  to  record  the  doings 
of  the  small  yachtsman — by  your  leave  the  truest  of 
all  sea  gipsies.  But  there  were  others,  owners  of 
ocean-going  steam-yachts  and  Atlantic  Cup  racers, 
whose  experience  of  the  sea  differed  little  from  that 
of  the  rugged  professional.  These,  on  the  outbreak 
of  war,  proceeded  to  the  nearest  dockyard  demand- 
ing guns,  and  men  who  could  shoot  them,  in  the 
King's  name.  They  got  the  guns  and  the  men,  and 


148  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

they  reinforced  the  trawler  patrol  and  examination 
service  from  the  Shetlands  to  the  Lizard.  When 
it  is  remembered  that  few  of  these  gallant  sports- 
men possessed  masters'  "tickets'* ;  that  3<DO-ton  yachts 
are  not  built  to  keep  the  seas  in  winter  off  the  outer 
Hebrides,  and  yet  kept  them:  when  the  number  of 
losses  and  groundings  during  the  period  they  were 
commanded  by  amateurs  is  compared  with  the  subse- 
quent tale  of  their  achievements  under  the  profes- 
sional seamen  who  succeeded  them — then  some  true 
insight  into  the  value  of  the  deep-sea  yachtsmen's 
work  will  be  obtained.  This  is  not  the  time  to  re- 
count in  detail  the  performances  of  the  individual  or 
his  yacht.  The  Navy  knows  them,  but  the  Navy, 
according  to  its  wont,  is  silent.  Some  day,  however, 
when  the  lawns  that  overlook  the  Solent  are  thronged 
once  more,  and  the  harbours  of  the  Riviera  again 
reflect  the  graceful  outlines  of  these  slim  Amazons 
of  the  sea,  smoking-room  and  tea  tables  will  hear 
the  tales — or  some  of  them.  And  there  will  be  some 
for  ever  untold,  because  the  men  who  might  have 
told  them  have  passed  into  the  Great  Silence. 

One  story,  however,  will  serve  to  illustrate  the 
spirit  in  which  the  deep-sea  yachtsman  answered  the 
call. 

There  was  a  certain  man  living  overseas  who  at 
the  outbreak  of  war  was  approached  by  his  son. 
"I'm  going  over  to  enlist,"  said  the  boy.  Now  the 
boy's  mother  was  an  invalid,  and  this  was  the  only 
son. 


GIPSIES  OF  THE  SEA  149 

The  father  smoked  in  silence  for  a  minute,  con- 
sidering  his  son's  announcement. 

"No,"  he  replied  at  last,^  "not  yet.  If  you  are 
killed,  your  mother  would  die.  I'll  go  over  first." 

His  son  laughed  indignantly  with  the  scorn  of 
youth.  "You're  too  old,  dad,"  he  said;  "you're  fifty- 
five." 

"Fifty-three,"  amended  the  older  man.  "Fifty- 
three,  and  I've  got  a  master's  ticket."  This  was  a 
man  who  raced  his  own  yacht  across  the  Atlantic  in 
the  days  of  piping  peace.  "But  I'll  act  fair  by  you," 
he  continued.  "I'll  go  over  and  volunteer,  and  if 
they  won't  have  me  I'll  come  back  and  you  can  go 
instead — and  God  go  with  you." 

They  shook  hands  on  the  deal,  and  the  older  man 
went. 

Volunteers  of  fifty-three — even  with  masters' 
tickets — were  not  being  eagerly  sought  after  in  the 
Navy  at  the  beginning  of  the  war.  The  volunteer 
perhaps  realised  this,  and  so  it  happened  that  White- 
hall accepted  his  age  at  his  own  estimate — forty- 
five. 

It  was  older  than  he  looked  or  felt;  and  if  his 
clear  eyes  are  any  index  to  character  it  was  the  first 
and  last  lie  he  ever  told. 

His  son  awaited  the  return  of  the  prodigal  with 
some  impatience ;  finally  he  received  a  letter  bidding 
him  to  keep  cheerful  and  look  after  his  mother.  His 
parent  was  at  the  time  of  writing  in  charge  of  an 
armed  guard,  nursing  a  leaky  Norwegian  wind-jam- 


150  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

mer  through  a  north-easterly  gale  in  the  region  of 
Iceland.  He  eventually  battled  her  and  a  contraband 
cargo  into  Stornoway,  and  got  the  first  bath  and  dry 
clothes  he  had  had  for  ten  days.  He  said  he  was 
very  happy  and  doing  his  bit;  and  this  I  hope  and 
believe  he  still  is. 

•  ••••• 

It  is  this  love  of  the  sea  and  familiarity  with  it 
in  all  its  conditions  that  have  served  the  R.N.V.R. 
officer  in  moments  of  stress  in  a  manner  which  the 
frequent  D.S.C.'s  among  them  testify.  But  there 
are  other  incidents  that  have  passed  without  such 
recognition  because  they  came  in  the  plain  path  of 
duty  or  were  incidental  to  the  sea-gipsy's  love  of  ad- 
venture. One  of  these  deserves  mention,  because  the 
two  great  Reserve  services,  the  R.N.R.  and  the  R.N. 
V.R.,  joined  hands  in  the  affair  and  saw  it  through 
together. 

Two  divisions  of  British  drifters  were  lying  in  a 
cross-Channel  port  awaiting  orders  to  return  to  their 
base.  It  was  in  the  winter,  and  a  south-easterly  gale 
was  blowing.  The  subsequent  meteorological  rec- 
ords testify  to  its  being  the  worst  that  year. 

The  order  to  return  came  to  the  senior  officer  of 
the  drifters  qualified  by  "as  soon  as  the  weather  has 
moderated  sufficiently."  The  senior  officer  of  one 
division  was  an  officer  of  the  Royal  Naval  Reserve, 
and  of  the  other  a  sub-lieutenant  of  the  Volunteer 
Reserve.  He  of  the  R.N.R.  looked  at  the  sky  and 
the  breakers  bursting  in  sheets  of  foam  against  the 


GIPSIES  OF  THE  SEA  151 

breakwater  and  thence  to  the  barometer,  and  opined 
that  it  wasn't  good  enough. 

The  R.N.V.R.  sub-lieutenant  said  he  was  tired  of 
harbour  and  guessed  he'd  have  a  bump  at  it.  The 
R.N.R.  sub-lieutenant  damned  his  eyes  for  a  fool, 
but  made  the  signal  for  shortening  cable  in  his  own 
division.  The  gale  abated  slightly,  and  the  two  divi- 
sions wallowed  out  in  line  ahead  through  the 'flying 
scud. 

In  mid-Channel  they  encountered  a  4,ooo-ton 
steamer,  derelict  and  drifting,  down  by  the  head, 
before  the  gale.  The  R.N.V.R.  man  watched  her 
sluggish  plunge  and  scend  in«the  steep -wind-whipped 
troughs,  and  decided  she  wasn't  as  bad  as  she  pre- 
tended to  be. 

"Take  charge  of  both  divisions  of  drifters,"  he 
signalled  to  his  confrere  in  the  tiny  flagship  of  the 
.other  division,  "and  take  them  into  harbour.  I  am 
going  to  board." 

He  then  bade  his  skipper  put  his  craft  alongside 
the  yawning  derelict,  and  called  for  volunteers  to  ac- 
company him.  His  men  were  no  cowards,  but  they 
weren't  tired  of  life,  and  most  of -them  had  wives 
and  families.  "I'll  come,"  said  the  cook,  however. 

They  ran  down  wind  under  the  sheering  bulwarks, 
and  the  R.N.V.R.  sub-lieutenant  and  the  cook  leaped 
at  a  trailing  fall,  climbed  up  it  hand  over  hand,  and 
tumbled  on  to  the  deserted  upper  deck  of  the 
steamer. 

In  the  meanwhile,  the  R.N.R.  sub-lieutenant  had 


152  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

proceeded  to  windward,  commended  his  command  to 
their  respective  skippers,  launched  his  cockleshell  of 
a  boat  and  drifted  down  in  it,  half-swamped,  until 
he,  too,  was  able  to  catch  the  fall,  and  so  climbed 
inboard.  He  was  in  time  to  see  the  R.N.V.R.  knock 
off  the  cable  stoppers  and  let  go  both  anchors.  The 
drifters  were  swallowed  by  the  mist  and  rain  and 
proceeded  to  their  base,  calling  on  their  gods  to  wit- 
ness they  were  no  cowards,  but  that  there  were  lim- 
its to  what  a  man  could  be  expected  to  do  for  sheer 
love  of  adventure. 

A  swift  survey  of  the  derelict  disclosed  the  fact 
that  her  No.  2  hold  was  flooded,  either  as  the  result 
of  a  mine  or  torpedo.  On  the  other  hand,  all  bulk- 
heads were  holding,  and  the  engine-room  was  un- 
touched. Said  the  R.N.R.  man:  "If  we  could  get 
steam  on  her,  I'd  up  killick  and  take  this  hooker  into 
the  Downs. "  But  three  men  cannot  raise  steam 
and  navigate  a  4,ooo-ton  steamer  without  assistance, 
so  they  made  themselves  comfortable  and  waited. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  a  destroyer  arrived,  the 
salt  spume  crusting  her  funnels,  and  the  handflags 
busy  above  her  bridge  screens. 

"Prepare  to  abandon  derelict.  Will  go  ahead  and 
veer  a  grass-line,"  said  the  destroyer,  in  much  the 
tone  that  a  parent  might  adopt  to  an  offspring  who 
has  nearly  succeeded  in  getting  itself  run  over  by  a 
motor-car. 

"Well,  now,"  said  the  R.N.V.R.  to  the  R.N.R., 


GIPSIES  OF  THE  SEA  153 

"that's  a  funny  thing:  I'm  bothered  if  I  can  read  that 
signal.  But  my  sight  isn't  what  it  used  to  be." 

"I  can  make  semaphore  all  right,"  replied  the 
R.N.R.,  ubut  when  it  comes  to  reading  it  I  get  all  of 
a  dither.  P'raps  the  cook  can  read  it." 

The  cook  replied  at  once  that  it  was  Greek  to  him, 
or  words  to  that  effect.  The  destroyer,  accordingly, 
after  waiting  some  time  and  growing  more  angry, 
went  up  to  windward  and  anchored. 

"Now,"  said  the  R.N.V.R.  to  the  R.N.R.,  "you 
talked  a  lot  about  your  semaphore.  Just  make  them 
a  signal  to  send  us  a  dozen  engine-room  ratings  and 
an  engineer  officer,  and  we'll  raise  steam  and  proceed 
to  the  Downs.  Thank  them  for  coming  to  see  us,  by 
the  way.  They're  getting  peevish." 

The  R.N.R.,  in  terms  of  diplomatic  suasion,  sig- 
nalled accordingly,  and  towards  dusk  a  drenched 
boatload  of  the  Royal  Navy,  Engine-room  Depart- 
ment, arrived  on  board.  Refreshed  with  Madeira 
from  the  captain's  saloon,  they  proceeded  to  the 
engine-room,  filled  the  boilers,  lit  the  furnaces,  and 
had  steam  raised  by  daylight.  The  steamer  then 
slipped  her  cables,  which  had  become  too  foul  to 
weigh,  substituted  an  Admiralty-pattern  kedge  for 
the  lost  anchors,  and  proceeded  modestly  under  her 
own  steam  and  the  destroyer's  escort  to  the  Downs. 

A  month  later  the  R.N.V.R.  met  the  R.N.R. 
ashore. 

"  'Member  that  derelict  we  salved  together,"  said 


154  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

the  R.N.V.R.  "I've  been  up  to  London  to  see  about 
•salvage  and  all  that." 

The  R.N.R.  brightened  considerably. 

"She's  worth  £120,000,  light,7'  he  said. 

"She  is,"  was  the  reply,  in  detached  tones  such  as 
the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  might  employ  to 
outline  his  Budget;  "but  she  was  on  Government 
charter.  As  she  was  salved  by" — he  took  a  long 
breath — "Naval  officers,  there  ain't  any  salvage." 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  DAY — AND  THE  MORNING  AFTER 

LOOKING  back  on  a  kaleidoscope  of  great 
events,  one  is  apt  to  be  struck  by  the  wealth 
of  insignificant  detail  with  which  memory  burdens 
itself.  Of  all  the  thunderous  panorama  in  which  a 
Fleet  Action  presents  itself  to  the  imagination,  very 
little  is  recorded  in  the  mind  of  a  participant  at  the 
time.  Later  on  a  man  may  fit  the  details  together 
into  an  orderly  comprehensive  tableau  for  the  bene- 
fit of  relations  and  others,  supplying  from  hearsay 
and  imagination  all  that  he  missed  as  an  insignificant 
actor  in  the  great  drama. 

Groping  among  the  memories  of  the  Battle  of 
Jutland  and  the  part  played  therein  by  the  fleet  flag- 
ship, it  is  not  unnatural,  therefore,  that  a  private  of 
marines  should  come  most  readily  to  mind.  He  it 
was  who  in  enjoyment  of  his  office  of  servant  jerked 
aside  the  curtain  of  a  cabin  door  about  3.15  p.m. 
on  May  3ist,  1916,  and  announced  in  laconic  tones 
that  the  fleet  was  going  to  "Action  Stations"  in  half 
an  hour's  time. 

The  Onlooker  had  kept  the  morning  watch,  and 
was  engaged  on  his  bunk  in  what  is  colloquially 
known  as  a  "stretch  off  the  land." 

i55 


156  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

"Eh?"  he  said. 

"  'Arf  an  hour,"  repeated  the  messenger  of  Mars. 
There  was  in  his  tone  that  note  of  impassive  stoicism 
usually  reserved  for  the  announcement  that  the  On- 
looker's gold  links  had  gone,  in  the  cuffs  of  a  shirt, 
to  the  wash — or  similarly  soul-shaking  tidings.  The 
latter  descended  from  his  bunk  in  search  of  the 
sinews  of  war. 

"Where  the  devil's  my  gas-mask?"  he  queried, 
after  a  breathless  search. 

4  'Andy,"  replied  the  stoic.  He  rummaged  in  an 
obscure  "glory-hole"  and  produced  in  turn  his  mas- 
ter's boot-cleaning  gear,  his  own  ditty-box,  private 
stock  of  tobacco,  fiancee's  portrait,  and  finally  his 
master's  gas-mask.  This,  emptied  of  a  further  as- 
sortment of  his  personal  possessions,  he  gravely 
handed  to  the  Onlooker. 

That  worthy  rapidly.collected  his  remaining  im- 
pedimenta and  struggled 'into  a  "British  warm"; -as 
he  did  so  certain  obscure  warnings  of  the  distant  past 
(those  far-off  days  when  we  read  handbooks  and 
attended  lectures  on  war  in  the  abstract)  came  back 
to  mind.  "By  the  way,"  he  said — "underclothing. 
In  the  Russo-Japanese  war 'they  always  put  on  clean 
underclothing  before  going  into  action,  I  remember. 
Septic  wounds,  and  all  that.  When  did  I  have  a 
clean  shift  last?" 

His  official  valet  closed  his  eyes,  as  if  contemplat- 
ing a  vista  of  time  greater  than  the  human  memory 
could  in  justice  be  expected  to  span.  Finally  he  shook 


DAY— AND  THE  MORNING  AFTER     157 

his  head,  gloomily.    "Couldn't -rightly  say,  but " 

"Never  mind,"  interrupted  the  Onlooker  hastily. 
"I  haven't  time  now,  anyway,"  and  made  for  the 
door.  His  servant's  impassive  countenance  soft- 
ened; perhaps  he  was  reflecting  that  they  might  never 
again  foregather  in  that  cabin.  "It's  goin'  to  be  cold 
up  there "  he  jerked  his  head  towards  the  upper- 
deck  and  forebridge,  and  eyed  his  master  compas- 
sionately. "Better  'ave  your  woolly  muffler — what 
your  wife  knitted  for  you." 

The  Onlooker  was  touched.  "Thank  you,"  he 
said.  "If  I  may  borrow  it  for  the  afternoon  ..." 

The  clatter  of  cups  and  saucers  in  the  neighbour- 
ing pantry  guided  his  footsteps  to  the  wardroom  in 
search  of  tea.  That  the  warning  had  gone  round 
was  evident  from  the  prevalent  wakefulness  (unus- 
ual at  that  hour)  of-all  the  occupants  of  the  mess. 
Everyone  was  garbed  for  the  fray  according  to  his 
prospective  role  or  individual  taste.  Costumes 
ranged'between  cricketing  flannels  and  duffle  overalls 
with  Balaclava  helmets  and  sea-boots. 

It  might  reasonably  have  been  expected  that  one 
topic  and  one  only — "Der  Tag" — would»have  been 
on  everyone's  lips.  The  German  Fleet  was  out :  was 
even  then  being  lured  north  by  the 'battle  cruisers, 
and  the  Fleet  was  rushing  to  meet  it  in  battle-array. 
The  hour  for  which  the  Fleet  had  waited  twenty-two 
weary  months  was  about  to  strike :  and  no  one  even 
mentioned  it. 


158  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

The  affection  was  somehow  peculiarly  British. 
Drake  epitomised  it  for  all  time  when  he  declared 
there  was  time  to  finish  the  game  and  beat  the  Span- 
iards too;  but  it  is  a  question  whether  the  self-con- 
scious imperturbality  of  that  game  of  bowls  on  Ply- 
mouth Hoe  equalled  that  of  the  Fleet  flagship's 
wardroom  as  its  members  sat  in  noisy  banter  round 
the  tea  table,  munching  bread-and-jam  with  a  furtive 
eye  on  the  clock.  .  .  . 

It  was  left  to  the  commander-in-chief's  flag  lieu- 
tenant to  break  the  spell.  He  put  down  his  cup  with 
a  clatter,  ^picked  up.his  telescope,  and  rose  to  his  feet, 
fastening  the  toggles  of  his  duffle  coat. 

"Well,*boys  .  .  .  ?"  he  said,  and  walked  towards 
the  door  as  the  bugles  began  to  blare  along  mess- 
deck  and  battery. 

•  •  •'  ••  ••  :«i 

Concealment  of  his  emotions  is  not  a  marked  char- 
acteristic of  the  British  blue-jacket  or  marine,  what- 
ever affectations  may  be  cherished  by  his  officers  in 
that  respect.  The  exultant  speculations,  prophecies, 
and  thanksgiving  of  a  thousand  men,  crowded  in 
those  confined  spaces,  met  the  ear  with  a  noise  like 
the  sea.  Commonplace  sounds  suddenly  acquired  a 
thrilling  significance,  and  the  clang  of  the  securing 
chains  of  the  guns  as  they  were  released,  the  tireless 
drone  of  the  turbines  far  below,  shrilling  pipe  and 
blare  of  bugle  overhead,  combined  to  set  the  pulses 
at  a  gallop.  The  Onlooker  passed  forward  through 
that  electrical  tide  of  emotion  and  laughing  men  that 


DAY— AND  THE  MORNING  AFTER     159 

surged  towards  the  hatchways,  and  en  route  over- 
took a  leading  seaman.  He  was  normally  a  staid, 
unemotional  individual,  known  best  (from  the  stand- 
point of  censor)  as  an  incorrigible  letter-writer.  He 
was  capering,  literally  capering,  along  the  battery. 
And  as  he  capered  he  shouted: 

"They're  out,  lads !  they're  out !  Christ  1  They're 
out  this  time!" 

And  out  they  were,  for  presently,  on  the  wind  that 
sang  past  the  naked  rails  of  the  forebridge  and  the 
bellying  halliards,  came  the  first  grumble  of  gunfire 
out  of  the  haze  ahead.  , 

Perhaps  it  was  the  utter  absence  of  colour,  the 
dull  grey  monochrome  of  sea  and  sky,  ships  and 
smoke,  that  heightened  the  resemblance  of  what  fol- 
lowed to  the  shifting  scene  of  a  cinema  show.  It 
robbed  even  dire  calamity  of  all  terror  at  the  time. 
It  seemed  incredible  that  the  cruiser  on  the  starboard 
quarter,  ringed  all  about  with  yeasty  pinnacles  of 
water,  was  one  of  ours,  being  hammered  to  extinc- 
tion by  the  guns  of  an  enemy  invisible.  The  eye  fol- 
lowed her  dispassionately  as  she  ran  that  desperate 
gauntlet  of  pitching  salvos;  and  when  the  end  came, 
and  she  changed  in  the  flutter  of  an  eyelid  into  a 
cloud  of  black  smoke,  it  was  some  time  before  a  sub- 
conscious voice  said  to  the  Onlooker:  "There  goes 
gallant  Sir  Robert  .  .  .  and  you'll  never  shake  Dicky 
Carter  by  the  hand  again.  .  .  ." 


160  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

Equally  remote  and  unreal  were  the  effects  of 
our  own  gunfire,  seen  and  lost  and  glimpsed  again  in 
that  ever-shifting  North  Sea  haze.  A  crippled  Ger- 
man destroyer,  crawling  out  of  range,  down  by  the 
stern,  like  a  hare  whose  hindquarters  have  been  par- 
alysed by  a  clumsy  sportsman :  an  enemy  light  cruiser, 
dismasted,  funnels  over  the  side,  one  gun  spitting 
defiance  from  a  shambles  of  a  battery  as  she  sank: 
a  great  battleship  listing  over,  all  aswarm  with  specks 
of  humanity — surely  it  was  none  of  our  noisy  doing? 

And  then  suddenly  a  salvo  of  1 4-inch  shells  "strad- 
dled" us,  and  a  yeoman  of  signals  beside  the  Onlook- 
er put  out  a  hand  and  pulled  him  behind  the  shelter 
of  a  canvas  wind-screen. 

"Best  get  behind  'ere,  sir,"  he  said.  Then  the 
absurdity  of  it  struck  them  simultaneously,  and  they 
both  laughed. 

The  insignificant  duties  of  the  Onlooker  took  him 
at  a  later  phase  in  the  action  to  the  lower  conning- 
tower.  Situated  far  below  the  water-line  and  behind 
all  the  available  armour,  it  is  deemed  the  safest  place 
in  the  ship,  and  is  the  salubrious  resort  of  various 
seconds-in-command,  waiting  to  step  into  the  shoes 
of  defunct  superiors  as  occasion  arose.  They  were 
not  a  cheerful  company,  since  their  role  was  pro  tern. 
necessarily  passive.  Further,  their  knowledge  of 
what  was  going  on  was  limited  to  scraps  of  informa- 
tion that  filtered  down  a  voice-pipe  from  the  upper 
conning-tower,  through  a  variety  of  mediums  all  bus- 


DAY— AND  THE  MORNING  AFTER     161 

ily  employed  on  other  matters.  The  assistant  con- 
structor (sometime  darling  of  International  Rugby 
crowds)  stood  with  his  ear  to  the  voice-pipe  and 
wailed  for  news  as  a  Neapolitan  beggar  beseeches 
alms.  Suddenly  he  paused,  and  his  face  brightened. 

"Disabled  Zeppelin  floating  on  the  surface  ahead," 
he  announced.  There  was  a  general  brightening  of 
the  countenances  around.  Followed  a  long  pause. 
Then: 

"Wash-out!  Not  a  Zeppelin.  Bows  of  a  battle 
cruiser  sticking  out  of  the  water." 

"Good  egg,"  said  someone.    "Another  Hun  done 


in." 


It  didn't  seem  to  occur  to  anyone  that  it  might  not 
have  been  a  Hun.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it  was  the 
Invincible,  or  all  that  was  left  of  her. 

Outside  the  lower  conning-tower  a  little  group  of 
messengers,  electric  light  and  fire  and  wreckage  par- 
ties stood  and  discoursed.  They  were  displaying  an 
unwonted  interest  in  the  merits  and  demerits  of 
swimming  belts. 

"Got  yours  on,  Nobby?"  inquired  one  boy-mes- 
senger of  another. 

"Yus,"  was  the  reply  in  tense  grave  tones.  "An* 
if  we  sinks  I'm  goin'  to  save  Admiral  Jellicoe  an' 
get  the  Victoria  Cross." 

This  pious  flight  of  fancy  apparently  rather  took 
his  friend's  breath  away,  for  there  was  a  moment's 
silence. 


1 62  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

"You  can  'elp,"  he  added  generously.  They  were 
"Haggles"  apparently.  .  .  . 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

Reaction  came  with  the  following  dawn:  a  weari- 
ness of  the  soul  that  no  fatigue  of  the  flesh  can  equal. 
All  one's  energies  seemed  needed  to  combat  the  over- 
whelming desire  for  sleep,  and  the  sensitive  plate 
which  records  even  absurdities  in  the  mind  holds  little 
save  one  recollection  of  that  dawn.  But  whatever 
has  grown  dim  and  been  forgotten,  the  memory  of 
a  journey  aft  along  the  mess-deck  in  search  of  a 
cup  of  tea  will  always  survive.  The  grey  daylight 
struggled  through  the  gunports  and  mingled  with 
the  sickly  glare  of  electric  lights  along  the  narrow 
vista  of  the  mess-deck.  One  watch  of  stokers  had 
been  relieved,  and  they  lay  where  they  had  dropped 
on  coming  up  from  the  stokehold.  On  every  avail- 
able inch  of  space  along  the  deck  sprawled  a  limp 
bundle  of  grimy  rags  that  was  a  man  asleep.  It  was 
like  picking  a  pathway  through  a  charnelhouse  of 
ebon  dead.  They  lay  on  their  backs  with  outstretched 
arms,  or  face  downwards  with  their  arms  undef 
their  foreheads,  in  every  imaginable  attitude  of 
jointless,  abandoned  exhaustion.  The  warm,  sour 
smell  of  perspiration  mingled  with  the  aftermath  of 
cordite  fumes.  .  .  . 

The  guns'  crews  beside  their  guns  were  silent. 
They  stood  or  sat,  arms  akimbo,  motionless  in  the 
apathy  of  reaction  and  fatigue,  following  the  passer- 
by with  their  eyes.  .  .  . 


DAY— AND  THE  MORNING  AFTER     163 

Aft  in  the  medical  distributing  station  all  was  still 
as  death.  Men  lay  motionless,  snoring  beside  the 
stretchers  and  operating  tables.  But  as  the  Onlooker 
passed,  something  moved  inside  the  arms  of  a  sleep- 
ing man.  A  stumpy  tail  wagged,  and  the  ponderous 
bulk  of  Jumbo,  the  mascot  bulldog,  rose,  shook  him- 
self and  trotted  forward,  grinning  a  greeting  from 
one  survivor  of  Jutland  to  another. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  NAVY-UNDER-THE-SEA 

year  or  so  before  the  war  found  the  Sub- 
marine  Service  still  in  its  infancy,  untried,  un- 
sung, a  jest  among  the  big-ship  folk  of  the  Navy-that- 
floats,  who  pointed  with  inelegant  gestures  from 
these  hundred-feet  cigar-shaped  egg-shells  to  their 
own  towering  steel-shod  rams  and  the  nineteen-thou- 
sand-odd  tons  behind  each  of  them. 

The  Submarine  Service  had  no  leisure  for  jests 
at  that  time,  even  if  they  had  seen  anything  par- 
ticularly humorous  about  the  comparison.  In  an 
intensely  grim  and  practical  way  they  were  dream- 
ers, "greatly  dreaming":  and  they  knew  that  the 
day  was  not  far  off  when  these  little  wet  ships  of 
theirs  would  come  into  their  own  and  hold,  in  the 

164 


THE  NAVY-UNDER-THE-SEA        165 

bow  and  stern  of  each  fragile  hull,  the  keys  of 
death  and  of  hell. 

The  Navy-that-Floats — the  Navy  of  aiguillettes 
and  "boiled  shirts,"  of  bath-rooms  and  Sunday- 
morning  divisions — dubbed  them  pirates.  Pirates, 
because  they  went  about  His  Majesty's  business  in 
football  sweaters  and  grey  flannel  trousers  tucked 
into  their  huge  sea-boots,  returning  to  harbour  with 
a  week's  growth  of  beard  and  memories  of  their  last 
bath  grown  dim. 

The  Submarine  Service  was  more  interested  in 
white  mice  *  than  pirates  in  those  days,  because  it 
was  growing  up;  but  the  allusion  stuck  in  the  mem- 
ory of  one  who,  at  the  outbreak  of  war,  drew  first 
blood  for  the  submarines.  He  returned  to  harbour 
flying  a  tiny  silk  Skull-and-Crossbones  at  his  mast- 
head, to  find  himself  the  object  of  the  Navy's  vocif- 
erous admiration,  and  later  (because  such  quips 
exchanged  between  branches  of  the  Naval  Service 
are  apt  to  get  misconstrued  in  less-enlightened  cir- 
cles) of  their  Lordship's  displeasure. 

The  time  had  come,  in  short,  when  it  was  the 
turn  of  the  Submarine  Service  to  develop  a  sense 
of  humour:  humour  of  a  sort  that  was  apt  to  be  a 
trifle  dour,  but  it  was  acquired  in  a  dour  school. 
They  may  be  said  to  have  learned  it  tickling  Death  in 
the  ribs :  and  at  that  game  he  who  laughs  last  laughs 
decidedly  loudest. 

1  White  mice  were  carried  in  the  early  types  of  submarines 
to  give  warning,  by  their  antics,  of  an  escape  of  gas* 


1 66  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

The  materials  for  mirth  in  submarine  circles  are 
commonly  such  as  can  be  easily  come  by:  bursting 
bombs,  mines,  angry  trawlers,  and  the  like.  Things 
not  in  themselves  funny,  perhaps,  but  taken  in  con- 
junction   However  .  .  . 

A  sower  went  forth  sowing;  she  moved  circum- 
spectly at  night  on  the  surface  and  during  the  day 
descended  to  the  bottom,  where  her  crew  slept,  ate 
sausages  and  fried  eggs  and  had  concerts;  there  were 
fourteen  items  on  the  programme  because  the  days 
were  long,  and  five  instruments  in  the  orchestra.  For 
two  nights  she  groped  her  way  through  shoals  and 
sand-banks,  negotiating  nineteen  known  minefields, 
and  only  the  little  fishes  can  tell  how  many  unknown 
ones.  Early  in  the  third  night  she  fixed  her  position, 
completed  her  grim  sowing  (thereby  adding  a  twen- 
tieth to  the  number  of  known  minefields  within  a  few 
square  miles  off  the  German  coast)  and  proceeded 
to  return  home.  At  dawn  she  was  sighted  by  two 
German  seaplanes  on  patrol;  she  dived  immediately, 
but  the  winged  enemy,  travelling  at  a  hundred  miles 
an  hour,  were  on  top  of  her  before  the  swirl  of  her 
dive  had  left  the  water. 

Now  it  must  be  explained  that  a  certain  elec- 
trically controlled  mechanism  in  the  interior  of  a 
submarine  is  so  constructed  that  if  any  shock  throws 
it  out  of  adjustment,  a  bell  rings  loudly  to  adver- 
tise the  fact.  As  the  submarine  dived,  two  bombs 
dropped  from  the  clouds  burst  in  rapid  succession 
dangerously  adjacent  to  the  hull. 


THE  NAVY-UNDER-THE-SEA        167 

The  boat  was  still  trembling  from  the  concussion 
when  sharp  and  clear  above  the  hum  of  the  motors 
rang  out  the  electric  bell  referred  to. 

"Maria,"  said  a  voice  out  of  the  shimmering  per- 
spective of  machinery  and  motionless  figures  await- 
ing Death,  "give  the  gentleman  a  bag  of  nuts!" 

In  spite  of  nearly  three  years  of  war,  the  mem- 
ory of  the  days  when  the  big  Navy  laughed  at  its 
uncouth  fledgling  has  not  altogether  died  away  from 
the  minds  of  the  Submarine  Service.  Opportunities 
for  repartee  come  none  too  often,  but  they  are  rarely 
missed. 

Now  the  branch  of  the  parent  Navy  with  which 
the  Submarine  Service  has  remained  most  in  touch 
is  the  department  concerned  with  mines  and  tor- 
pedoes. The  headquarters  of  such  craftmanship  is 
properly  a  shore  establishment:  but  following  the 
custom  of  the  Navy  it  retains  the  name  of  the  hulk 
from  which  it  evolved,  and  is  known  in  Service  circles 
as  H.M.S.  Vernon. 

A  certain  submarine  was  returning  from  what  (to 
borrow  a  phrase  from  German  naval  communiques} 
may  be  described  as  an  enterprise.  It  was  one  which 
involved  a  number  of  hazardous  feats,  not  least  of 
which  was  navigating  submerged  in  an  area  from 
which  the  enemy  had  removed  all  buoys  and  lights, 
and  was  patrolling  with  destroyers  and  Teutonic 
thoroughness. 

The  submarine  was  proceeding  thus  at  slow  speed 


1 68  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

with  her  crew  at  their  stations.  Their  countenances 
wore  expressions  similar  to  those  on  the  faces  of  the 
occupants  of  a  railway  carriage  travelling  through 
a  tunnel.  One,  a  red-pated  man,  tattooed  like  a 
Patagonian  chieftain,  sat  with  his  lips  pursed  up  in 
a  soundless  whistle,  watching  a  needle  flicker  on  a 
dial,  while  he  marked  time  to  an  imaginary  tune 
with  his  foot. 

A  sharp  metallic  concussion  jarred  the  outer  shell 
of  the  fore  compartment.  It  was  followed  a  second 
later  by  another,  farther  aft,  and  then  another.  Six 
times  that  terrible  sound  jolted  the  length  of  the 
boat,  and  then  all  was  silence.  The  noise  made  by 
a  mine  striking  a  submarine  under  water  is  one  few 
have  lived  to  describe,  yet  every  man  there  inter- 
preted it  on  the  instant. 

They  waited  in  the  uncomfortable  knowledge  that 
mines  are  sometimes  fitted  with  delay-action  fuses 
which  explode  them  some  seconds  after  impact. 
Then  suddenly  the  tension  broke.  For  the  first  time 
the  red-headed  man  took  his  eyes  from  the  dial,  and 
his  foot  stopped  its  noiseless  tattoo. 

"Good  old  Vernon!"  he  said  sourly.  "Another 
blasted  'dud' !" 

Once  clear  of  their  own  bases  and  the  sight  of 
war  signal  stations,  the  submarine  is  an  outlaw  on 
the  high  seas,  fending  for  itself  in  the  teeth  of  friend 
or  foe.  True  there  is  an  elaborate  system  of  recog- 
nition signals  in  force,  but  the  bluff  seamen  in  com- 
mand of  the  armed  auxiliaries  that  guard  the  sea- 


THE  NAVY-UNDER-THE-SEA        169 

ways  round  the  coast  have  a  way  of  acting  first  and 
talking  afterwards.  It  is  the  way  of  the  sea. 

A  homing  submarine  on  the  surface  encountered 
one  of  these  gale-battered  craft,  and  in  spite  of  vehe- 
ment signals  found  herself  under  a  rain  of  projectiles 
from  the  trawler's  gun.  Realising  that  the  custom- 
ary signals  were  of  no  avail,  the  commanding  officer 
of  the  submarine  bethought  him  of  a  still  more  easily 
interpreted  code.  The  second-in-command  dived 
down  the  conning-tower,  snatched  the  tablecloth  off 
the  breakfast  table,  and  together  they  waved  it  in 
token  of  abject  surrender. 

The  trawler  ceased  fire  and  the  submarine  ap- 
proached near  enough  to  establish  her  identity  with 
hand-flags.  The  white-bearded  skipper  of  the  trawl- 
er was  moved  to  the  depths  of  his  Methody  soul. 

"Thank  God!"  he  signalled  back,  "thank  God  I 
didn't  hit  you!" 

"Amen!"  replied  the  hand-flags,  and  then  after  a 
pause :  "What  did  you  do  in  the  Great  War,  daddy?" 

Those  who  go  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea  in 
submarines  are  wont  to  say  (in  public  at  all  events) 
that  since  they  gave  up  groping  among  the  moorings 
of  the  Turkish  minefields  in  the  Narrows,  very  little 
happens  to  them  nowadays  that  is  really  exciting. 

This  of  course  is  largely  a  question  of  the  standard 
by  which  you  are  accustomed  to  measure  excitement. 
Half  an  hour's  perusal  of  the  official  reports  made 
by  the  captains  of  these  little  wet  ships  on  return 


170  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

to  harbour  almost  leads  to  the  supposition  that  each 
writer  stifled  his  yawns  of  boredom  with  one  hand 
while  he  wrote  with  the  other. 

Yet  to  the  initiated  Death  peeps  out  half  a  dozen 
times  in  the  length  of  a  page,  between  the  written 
lines  in  which  he  is  so  studiously  ignored.  The  cul- 
mination of  years  of  training,  ten  seconds  of  calcu- 
lated judgment  and  a  curt  order,  which  cost  the  Ger- 
man Navy  a  battleship,  is  rendered  thus  into  prose : 
U5  a.m.  Fired  both  bow  torpedoes  at  1,200  yards 
range  at  last  ship  in  line.  Hit.  Dived." 

But  let  us  begin  at  the  beginning.  .  .  . 

At  three  o'clock  one  summer  morning  a  British 
submarine  was  sitting  on  the  surface  admiring  the 
face  of  the  waters.  There  was  a  waning  moon,  and 
by  its  light  she  presently  observed  a  line  of  German 
light  cruisers  stealing  across  her  bow.  She  waited, 
because  they  were  steering  west,  and  it  is  not  the 
custom  of  such  craft  to  go  west  alone;  two  minutes 
later  she  sighted  the  smoke  of  five  battle  cruisers 
also  going  west.  She  allowed  the  leading  ship  to 
come  within  800  yards  and  fired  a  torpedo  at  her; 
missed,  and  found  herself  in  the  middle  of  a  broad- 
side of  shell  of  varying  calibres,  all  pitching  unpleas- 
antly close.  She  dived  like  a  coot,  and  with  such 
good-will  that  she  struck  the  bottom  and  stopped 
there  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  putting  things  straight 
again. 

At  4  a.m.  the  submarine  climbed  to  the  surface 
and  found  two  squadrons  of  battleships  blackening 


THE  NAVY-UNDER-THE-SEA        171, 

the  sky  with  smoke,  screened  by  destroyers  on  all 
sides  and  brooded  over  by  Zeppelins.  She  fired  at 
two  miles  range  and  missed  the  flagship,  halved 
the  range  and  fired  again — this  time  at  the  last  ship 
in  the  line — and  blew  a  hole  in  her  side  through 
which  you  could  drive  a  motor  omnibus.  She  then 
dived  to  a  considerable  depth  and  sat  and  listened 
to  the  uchug"  of  the  destroyers'  propellers  circling 
overhead  and  the  detonations  of  their  explosive 
charges.  These  gradually  grew  fainter  as  the  hunt 
moved  away  on  a  false  trail. 

The  submarine  then  came  up  and  investigated; 
the  remainder  of  the  German  Fleet  had  vanished, 
leaving  their  crippled  sister  to  the  ministrations  of 
the  destroyers,  who  were  visible  casting  about  in  all 
directions,  "apparently,"  says  the  report  dryly, 
"searching  for  me."  The  stricken  battleship,  with 
a  heavy  list,  was  wallowing  in  the  direction  of  the 
German  coast,  sagging  through  a  right-angle  as  she 
went.  The  menace  that  stalked  her  fetched  a  wide 
circle,  reloading  on  the  way,  and  took  up  a  position 
ahead  favourable  for  the  coup  de  grace.  She  ad- 
ministered it  at  1,500  yards  range  and  dived,  prais- 
ing Allah. 

Later,  having  breakfasted  to  the  accompaniment 
of  distant  explosions  of  varying  force,  she  rose  to 
the  surface  again.  It  was  a  clear  sunny  morning 
with  perfect  visibility;  the  battleship  had  vanished 
and  on  the  horizon  the  smoke  of  the  retreating  de- 
stroyers made  faint  spirals  against  the  blue. 


172  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

Since  British  submarines  specialise  in  attacking 
enemy  men-of-war  only,  their  operations  are  chiefly 
confined  to  waters  where  such  craft  are  most  likely 
to  be  found.  Those  who  read  the  lesson  of  Jutland 
aright  will  therefore  be  able  to  locate  roughly  the 
area  of  British  submarine  activity. 

In  the  teeth  of  every  defensive  device  known  to 
Kultur,  despite  moored  mines,  explosive  nets,  and 
decoys  of  fiendish  ingenuity,  this  ceaseless  pa- 
trol is  maintained.  Winter  and  summer,  from 
sunset  to  dawn  and  dawn  to  sunrise,  there  the  little 
wet  ships  watch  and  wait.  Where  the  long  yellow 
seas  break  in  clouds  of  surf  across  sandbanks  and 
no  man  dares  to  follow,  they  lie  and  draw  their 
breath.  Their  inquisitive  periscopes  rise  and  dip  in 
the  churning  wake  of  the  German  minesweepers 
themselves.  They  rise  out  of  the  ambush  of  depths 
where  the  groundswell  of  a  forgotten  gale  stirs  the« 
sand  into  a  fog;  and  an  unsuspecting  Zeppelin,  fly- 
ing low,  lumbers,  buzzing  angrily,  out  of  range  of 
their  high-angle  gun. 

Here  too  come  other  submarines,  returning  from 
a  cruise  with  the  murder  of  unarmed  merchantmen 
to  their  unforgettable  discredit.  They  come  warily, 
even  in  their  own  home  waters,  and  more  often  than 
not  submerged;  but  they  meet  the  little  wet  ships 
from  time  to  time,  and  the  record  of  their  doubtful 
achievements  remains  thenceforward  a  song  unsung. 

A  British  submarine  on  patrol  sighted  through 
her  periscope  the  periscope  of  another  submarine. 


THE  NAVY-UNDER-THE-SEA        173 

So  close  were  the  two  boats  that  to  discharge  a  tor- 
pedo would  have  been  as  dangerous  to  one  as  the 
other,  and  the  commanding  officer  of  the  British  boat 
accordingly  rammed  his  opponent.  Neither  boat 
was  travelling  fast,  and  he  had  fully  three  seconds 
in  which  to  make  his  decision  and  act  on  it. 

Locked  together  thus,  they  dropped  down  through 
the  depths ;  the  German  blowing  all  his  tanks  in  fur- 
ious efforts  to  rise ;  the  other  flooding  every  available 
inch  of  space  in  a  determined  effort  to  force  his  ad- 
versary down  and  drown  him. 

Now  the  hull  of  a  submarine  is  tested  to  resist  the 
pressure  of  the  water  up  to  a  certain  depth;  after 
that  the  joints  leak,  plates  buckle,  and  finally  the 
whole  structure  collapses  like  a  crumpled  egg-shell. 
With  one  eye  on  the  depth-gauge  the  British  lieu- 
tenant forced  the  German  down  to  the  safety  limit 
and,  foot  by  boot,  beyond  it.  Then  gradually  they 
heard  the  enemy  begin  to  bump  along  their  bottom ; 
he  had  broken  away  from  the  death-lock  and  was 
rolling  helplessly  aft  beneath  their  hull.  The  sounds 
ceased  and  the  needle  on  the  dial  jerked  back  and 
began  to  retrace  its  course.  The  British  submarine 
rose,  to  contemplate  a  circle  of  oil  slowly  widening 
on  the  surface  in  the  region  of  the  encounter. 

Few  of  these  grim  games  of  Peep-bo!  are  with- 
out a  moral  of  some  sort.  A  gentleman  adventurer 
within  the  mouth  of  a  certain  river  was  aware  of  a 
considerable  to-do  on  'board  flag-draped  tugs  and 
river-craft;  he  himself  shared  in  the  universal  elation 


174  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

on  sighting  through  his  periscope  a  large  submarine, 
also  gaily  decked  with  flags,  evidently  proceeding  on 
a  trial  trip.  He  waited  until  she  was  abreast  of 
him  and  then  torpedoed  her,  blowing  her  sky-high. 
Remained  then  the  business  of  getting  home. 

Dashing  blindly  down  towards  the  open  sea  with 
periscope  beneath  the  surface,  he  stuck  on  a  sand- 
bank and  there  lay,  barely  submerged.  A  Zeppelin 
at  once  located  him:  but  in  view  of  his  position  and 
the  almost  certain  prospect  of  his  capture,  forbore 
to  drop  bombs;  instead  she  indicated  his  position 
to  a  flotilla  of  destroyers  and  stood  by  to  watch  the 
fun.  The  commander  of  the  submarine  raised  his 
periscope  for  a  final  look  round  and  found  a  destroy- 
er abreast  his  stern  torpedo  tube.  .  He  admits  that 
things  looked  blackish,  but  there  was  the  torpedo  in 
the  tube  and  there  was  the  destroyer. 

He  fired  and  hit  her;  the  next  instant,  released 
from  the  embrace  of  the  mud  by  the  shock  of  the 
discharge,  the  submarine  quietly  slid  into  deep  water 
and  returned  home. 

In  big  brass  letters  on  an  ebonite  panel  in  the  in- 
terior of  the  submarine  is  her  motto — one  word: 
RESURGAM. 

There  are  both  heights  and  depths  attainable  by 
the  Spirit  of  Man,  concerning  which  the  adventurer 
who  has  been  there  is  for  ever  silent.  His  mother 
or  his  wife  may  eventually  wring  something  out  of 
him,  but  not  another  man.  Readers  of  the  following 


THE  NAVY-UNDER-THE-SEA        175 

narrative  must  therefore  content  themselves  with  the 
bald  facts  and  the  consolation  that  they  are  true. 
What  the  man  thought  about  during  his  two  hours' 
fight  for  life :  how  he  felt  when  Death,  acknowledg- 
ing defeat,  opened  his  bony  fingers  and  let  him  go, 
is  his  own  affair — and  possibly  one  other's. 

Disaster  overtook  a  certain  British  submarine  one 
day  and  she  filled  and  sank.  Before  the  engulfing 
water  could  reach  the  after-compartment,  however, 
the  solitary  occupant,  a  stoker  petty  officer,  succeed- 
ed in  closing  the  watertight  door.  This  compartment 
was  the  engine-room  of  the  boat,  and,  save  for  the 
glimmer  of  one  lamp  which  continued  to  burn  dimly 
through  an  "earth,"  was  in  darkness. 

Now  it  happened  that  this  solitary  living  entity, 
in  the  unutterable  loneliness  of  the  darkness,  im- 
prisoned fathoms  deep  below  the  wind  and  sunlight 
of  his  world,  had  a  plan.  It  was  one  he  had  been, 
wont  to  discuss  with  the  remainder  of  the  crew  in 
leisure  moments  (without,  it  may  be  added,  undue 
encouragement)  by  which  a  man  might  save  his  life 
in  just  such  an  emergency  as  .had  now  arisen.  Brief- 
ly, it  amounted  to  this :  water  admitted  into  the  hull 
of  a  submarine  will  rise  until  the  pressure  of  the  air 
inside  equalises  the  pressure  of  the  water  outside: 
this  providing  the  air  cannot  escape.  A  sudden  open- 
ing in  the  upper  part  of  the  shell  would  release  the 
pent-up  air  in  the  form  of  a  gigantic  bubble;  this, 
rushing  surface-wards,  would  carry  with  it  an  object 
lighter  than  an  equal  volume  of  water — such,  for 


176  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

instance,  as  a  live  man.  It  was  his  idea,  then,  to 
admit  the  water  as  high  as  it  would  rise,  open  the 
iron  hatchway  through  which  torpedoes  were  lowered 
into  the  submarine,  and  thus  escape  in  the  conse- 
quent evulsion  of  imprisoned  air.  It  was  a  des- 
perate plan,  but  granted  ideal  conditions  and  un- 
failing luck,  there  was  no  reason  why  it  should  not 
succeed.  In  this  case  the  conditions  for  putting  it 
into  execution  were,  unfortunately,  the  reverse  of 
ideal. 

The  water  spurted  through  the  strained  joints  in 
the  plating  and  through  the  voicepipes  that  connected 
the  flooded  forepart  with  the  engine-room.  With 
it  came  an  additional  menace  in  the  form  of  chlorine 
gas,  generated  by  the  contact  of  salt  water  with  the 
batteries;  the  effect  of  this  gas  on  human  beings  was 
fully  appreciated  by  the  Germans  when  they  adopted 
it  in  the  manufacture  of  asphyxiating  shells.  .  .  . 

To  ensure  a  rapid  exit  the  heavy  torpedo-hatch 
had  to  be  disconnected  from  its  hinges  and  securing 
bars,  and  it  could  only  be  reached  from  the  top  of 
the  engines.  The  water  was  rising  steadily,  and  the 
heat  given  off  by  the  slowly  cooling  engines  can  be 
better  imagined  than  described.  Grasping  a  heavy 
spanner  in  his  hand,  the  prisoner  climbed  up  into 
this  inferno  and  began  his  fight  for  life. 

His  first  attempt  to  remove  the  securings  of  the 
hatch  was  frustrated  by  the  weight  of  the  water  on 
the  upper  surface  of  the  submarine;  this  would  be 
ultimately  overcome  by  the  air  pressure  inside,  but 


THE  NAVY-UNDER-THE-SEA        177 

not  till  the  water  had  risen  considerably.  Every 
moment's  delay  increased  the  gas  and  some  faster 
means  of  flooding  the  compartment  had  to  be  de- 
vised. The  man  climbed  down  and  tried  various 
methods,  groping  about  in  the  choking  darkness, 
diving  below  the  scummy  surface  of  the  slowly  rising 
tide  to  feel  for  half-forgotten  valves.  In  the  course 
of  this  he  came  in  contact  with  the  switchboard  of 
the  dynamo  and  narrowly  escaped  electrocution. 

Shaken  by  the  shock,  and  half  suffocated  by  the 
gas,  he  eventually  succeeded  in  admitting  a  quicker 
flow  of  water;  the  internal  pressure  lifted  the  hatch 
off  its  seating  sufficiently  to  enable  him  to  knock  off 
the  securings.  The  water  still  rose,  but  thinking 
that  he  now  had  sufficient  pressure  accumulated,  he 
made  his  first  bid  for  freedom.  Three  times  he  suc- 
ceeded in  raising  the  hatch,  but  not  sufficiently  to 
allow  him  to  pass:  each  time  the  air  escaped  and  each 
time  the  hatch  fell  again  before  he  could  get  through. 

More  pressure  was  needed,  which  meant  that 
more  water  would  have  to  be  admitted  from  the  fore- 
compartment,  and  with  it  unfortunately  more  gas. 
First  of  all,  however,  the  hatch  had  to  be  secured 
again.  The  man  dived  to  the  bottom  of  the  boat 
and  found  the  securing  clips,  swam  up  with  them  and 
secured  the  hatch  once  more.  Then  he  opened  the 
deadlight  between  the  two  compartments  a  little  way, 
increased  the  inrush  of  water,  and  climbing  back 
on  to  the  top  of  the  engines  knocked  the  bolts  away. 

As  he  expected  the  hatch  flew  open,  but  the  pres- 


178  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

sure  was  not  now  sufficient  to  blow  him  out.  He 
started  to  climb  out,  when  down  came  the  hatch 
again,  and  fastened  on  his  hand,  crushing  it  beneath 
its  weight.  By  dint  of  wedging  his  shoulder  be- 
neath the  hatch  he  succeeded  in  finally  releasing  his 
hand  and  allowed  the  hatch  to  drop  back  into  its 
place. 

Loss  of  consciousness,  nerve,  or  hope  would  have 
sealed  his  doom  any  moment  during  the  past  two 
hours,  but  even  in  this  bitter  extremity  his  indomi- 
table courage  refused  to  be  beaten.  Gassed,  elec- 
trocuted, maimed,  cornered  like  a  rat  in  a  hole,  he 
rallied  all  his  faculties  for  a  final  desperate  effort. 
Crawling  down  again,  he  swam  to  the  deadlight  and 
knocked  off  the  nuts  to  admit  the  full  rush  of  water. 
The  compartment  would  now  flood  completely,  but 
it  was  his  last  chance.  He  climbed  back  under  the 
hatch  and  waited. 

The  water  rose  until  it  reached  the  coaming  of 
the  hatch;  with  his  final  remnant  of  strength  he 
forced  up  the  hatch  for  the  last  time.  The  air  leaped 
surface-wards,  driven  out  by  the  water  which  im- 
patiently invaded  the  last  few  feet  it  had  striven 
for  so  long.  With  it,  back  through  a  depth  of  sixty 
feet,  back  to  God's  sunlight  and  men's  voices  and 
life,  passed  a  Man. 

The  Navy-that-Floats  and  the  Navy-that-Flies  us- 
ually go  about  their  work  sustained  by  the  compan- 
ionship of  others  of  their  kin.  From  first  to  last 


THE  NAVY-UNDER-THE-SEA        179 

their  ways  are  plain  for  all  men  to  behold.  They 
fight,  and  if  need  be,  die,  heartened  by  the  reek  of 
cordite-smoke  and  cheering,  or  full-flight  between 
the  sun  and  the  gaze  of  breathless  armies.  It  is 
otherwise  with  the  Navy-under-the-Sea. 

Submarines  may  leave  harbour  in  pairs,  their  con- 
ning-towers  awash,  and  the  busy  hand-flags  exchang- 
ing dry  witticisms  and  personalities  between  the  re- 
spective captains.  But  as  the  land  fades  astern,  of 
necessity  their  ways  part;  it  is  a  rule  of  the  game  in 
the  Submarine  Service  that  you  do  your  work  alone ; 
oft-times  in  darkness,  and  more  often  still  in  the 
shadow  of  death. 

There  is  appointed  an  hour  and  a  day  when  each 
boat  should  return.  After  that  there  is  a  margin, 
during  which  a  boat  might  return;  it  is  calculated  to 
cover  every  conceivable  contingency;  and  as  the  days 
pass,  and  the  slow  hours  drag  their  way  round  the 
wardroom  clock  on  board  the  Submarine  Depot  Ship, 
the  silences  round  the  fireplace  grow  longer  and  there 
is  a  tendency  in  men's  minds  to  remember  little 
things.  Thus  he  looked  or  lit  a  pipe:  scooped  the 
pool  at  poker:  held  his  dog's  head  between  his  hands 
and  laughed.  .  .  .  After  that  a  typewritten  list! 
of  names  is  pinned  on  the  wall  of  the  little  chapel 
ashore,  and  here  and  there  among  the  rows  of  quiet 
houses  on  the  hill  some  white-faced  woman  folds  up 
empty  garments  and  slowly  begins  to  pack.  .  .  . 
That  is  all.  From  first  to  last,  utter  silence  and  the 
Unknown. 


i8o  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

In  this  way  has  been  begotten  a  tradition  peculiar 
to  the  Navy-under-the-Sea.  In  the  parent  Navy  it  is 
not  meet  to  talk  "shop"  out  of  working  hours;  in  the 
Navy-under-the-Sea  every  aspect  of  life  is  a  jest;  but 
neither  in  seriousness  nor  in  jest  does  one  refer  to 
Death. 

A  certain  lieutenant  in  command  of  a  British  sub- 
marine was  returning  from  patrol  in  waters  fre- 
quented by  German  men-of-war,  when  he  rescued 
the  crew  of  a  Danish  steamer  torpedoed  and  sunk 
by  a  German  submarine.  It  was  blowing  a  gale  and 
his  timely  intervention  saved  the  lives  of  the  cast- 
aways. 

The  Depot  Wardroom  listened  to  the  tale  and 
approved.  It  even  warned  the  hero  that  he  might 
find  himself  the  possessor  of  a  pair  of  presentation 
binoculars  if  he  weren't  careful.  The  hero  expressed 
his  views  on  that  aspect  of  the  affair  (they  need  not 
be  repeated  here)  and  straightway  forgot  the  inci- 
dent. 

He  was  on  his  way  back  from  his  next  spell  of 
patrol  work  a  few  weeks  later  when  he  again  en- 
countered in  an  open  boat  the  crew  of  another  tor- 
pedoed ship.  They  were  Dutch  this  time,  and  they 
had  been  pulling  for  nineteen  hours  in  a  winter  gale, 
so  that  their  hands  were  flayed  to  the  bone.  These 
he  also  rescued  and  brought  back  with  him  to  the 
base;  thence  they  were  sent  in  comfort  to  their  na- 
tive land  to  reflect  at  leisure  on  Germany's  methods 


THE  NAVY-UNDER-THE-SEA        181 

of  conducting  submarine  warfare,  as  compared  with 
those  of  Great  Britain. 

A  few  days  later  a  deputation  of  his  brother  sub- 
marine captains  summoned  the  hero  to  the  ward- 
room (what  time  the  sun  had  risen  over  the  fore- 
yard),  and  there,  to  the  accompaniment  of  cocktails 
and  an  illuminated  address,  solemnly  presented  him 
With  a  pair  of  binoculars  subtly  fashioned  out  of 
beer-bottles:  in  the  wording  of  the  gunner's  supply 
note  that  accompanied  them  "complete  in  case,  tin, 
black-japanned."  That  all  things  might  be  done 
decently  and  in  order,  the  recipient  was  bidden  to- 
sign  an  official  receipt-note  for  the  same. 

Now  the  moral  of  this  may  appear  a  trifle  ob- 
scure ;  but  it  serves  to  illustrate  the  attitude  towards 
life  of  the  Navy-under-the-Sea.  The  lives  of  these 
defenceless  victims  of  Hunnish  brutality  had  been 
saved — therefore  the  occasion  demanded  not  hero- 
ics, but  high  mirth.  The  hero  of  the  affair  admits 
to  having  partly  missed  the  joke.  But  this  may  be 
accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  the  binoculars  were 
empty,  and  that  later  on,  when  presented  with  his 
monthly  mess-bill,  he  discovered  that  the  official  re- 
ceipt which  bore  his  signature  included  the  cocktails, 
ordered  by  the  deputation  during  the  presentation 
ceremony.  So  much  for  the  Jest  of  Life. 

There  is  a  private  magazine  which  appears 
monthly  in  a  certain  east-coast  port;  it  is  edited  by 
a  submarine  officer,  written  by  submarine  officers,, 
and  its  circulation  is  confined  chiefly  to  the  Navy- 


1 82  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

under-the-Sea :  but  it  affords  the  truest  and  clearest 
insight  that  can  be  obtained  of  the  psychology  of 
the  Submarine  Service. 

The  success  of  a  publication  of  this  nature  de- 
pends upon  raw  personalities — indeed  there  is  very 
little  other  "copy"  obtainable;  the  readers  demand 
it  voraciously,  and  the  victims  chuckle  and  tear  off 
the  editor's  trousers  in  the  smoking-room.  Month 
by  month,  as  you  turn  the  witty  pages,  familiar  names 
reappear,  derided,  scandalously  libelled,  mercilessly 
chaffed  to  make  the  mirth  of  the  Mess.  Then  ab- 
ruptly a  name  appears  no  more. 

"Art  called  away  to  the  north, 

Old  sea-dog?     Yet,  ere  you  depart, 
Clasp  once  more  this  hand  held  forth.  .  .  . 
Good-bye!     God  bless  your  dear  old  heart!" 

The  above  lines  are  quoted  from  the  magazine  in 
question,  with  the  editor's  permission,  and  in  rever- 
ent memory  of  a  very  gallant  officer,  to  sum  up,  as 
no  prose  could,  the  attitude  towards  Death  of  these 
"gentlemen  unafraid." 

It  happened  that  another  of  Britain's  little  wet 
ships  went  into  the  northern  mists  and  returned  no 
more.  As  was  the  custom,  a  brother  officer  of  the 
Submarine  Service  went  ashore  to  tell  the  tale  to  the 
wife  of  her  commanding  officer,  returning  from  the 
task  white  and  silent. 

A  few  months  later  the  officers  of  the  flotilla  to 
which  the  boat  had  belonged  were  asked  to  elect  a 
sponsor  for  the  little  son  of  their  dead  comrade. 


THE  NAVY-UNDER-THE-SEA        183 

Now  since  the  life  of  any  one  of  them  was  no  very 
certain  pledge,  they  chose  three :  of  whom  one  was 
the  best  boxer,  another  the  best  footballer,  and  the 
third  owned  the  lowest  golf  handicap  in  their  com- 
munity. In  due  course  the  boy  was  destined  to  be- 
come a  submarine  officer  also,  and  it  behoved  the 
Submarine  Service  to  see  that  he  was  brought  up  in 
such  a  way  as  to  be  best  fitted  for  that  service,  sure 
of  hand  and  heart  and  eye. 

Thus  in  life  and  death  the  spirit  of  the  Navy- 
under-the-Sea  endures  triumphant.  Prating  they 
leave  to  others,  content  to  follow  their  unseen  ways 
in  silence  and  honour.  Whoever  goes  among  them 
for  a  while  learns  many  lessons ;  but  chiefly  perhaps 
they  make  it  clear  that  the  best  of  Life  is  its  humour, 
and  of  Death  the  worst  is  but  a  brief  forget- 
ting. .  .  . 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  PORT  LOOK-OUT 

THERE  is  a  tendency  among  some  people  to  re- 
gard war  as  a  morally  uplifting  pursuit.     Be- 
cause a  man  fights  in  the  cause  of  right  and  free- 
dom, it  is  believed  by  quite  a  large  section  of  those 

184 


THE  PORT  LOOK-OUT  185 

who  don't  fight  that  he  goes  about  the  business  in  a 
completely  regenerate  spirit,  unhampered  by  any  of 
the  human  failings  that  were  apt  to  beset  him  in 
pre-war  days.  Be  that  as  it  may,  Able  Seaman  Pet- 
tigrew,  wearer  of  no  good  conduct  badges  and  in- 
corrigible leave-breaker  in  peace-time,  remained  in 
war  merely  Able  Seaman  Pettigrew,  leave-breaker, 
and  still  minus  good  conduct  badges. 

He  stood  at  the  door  of  a  London  public-house, 
contemplating  the  night  distastefully.  The  wind 
howled  down  the  muddy  street,  and  the  few  lamps 
casting  smears  of  yellow  light  at  intervals  along  the 
thoroughfare  only  served  to  illuminate  the  driving 
rain.  His  leave  expired  at  7  a.m.  the  following 
morning,  and  he  had  just  time  to  catch  the  last  train 
to  Portsmouth  that  night.  To  do  Mr.  Pettigrew 
justice,  he  had  completed  the  first  stage  of  his  jour- 
ney— the  steps  of  the  public-house — with  that  laud- 
able end  in  view.  Here,  however,  he  faltered,  and 
as  he  faltered  he  remembered  a  certain  hospitable 
lady  of  his  acquaintance  who  lived  south  of  the  river. 

"To  'ell!"  said  Mr.  Pettigrew  recklessly,  and 
swung  himself  into  a  passing  bus.  As  he  climbed 
the  steps  he  noted  that  it  passed  Waterloo  station, 
and  for  an  instant  the  flame  of  good  intent,  tempo- 
rarily dowsed,  flickered  into  life  again.  His  ship, 
he  remembered,  was  under  sailing  orders.  He  found 
himself  alone  on  top  of  the  bus,  and  walked  for- 
ward to  the  front  left-hand  seat.  For  a  moment 
he  stood  there,  gripping  the  rail  and  peering  ahead 


1 86  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

through  the  stinging  rain  while  the  bus  lurched  and 
skidded  on  its  way  through  deserted  streets.  Then 
his  imagination,  quickened  somewhat  by  hot  whisky 
and  water,  obliterated  the  impulse  of  conscience. 
He  saw  himself  twenty-four  hours  later,  standing 
thus  as  port  look-out  on  board  his  destroyer,  peer- 
ing ahead  through  the  drenching  spray,  gripping  the 
rail  with  numbed  hands.  .  .  . 

"Oh — to  'ell!"  said  Mr.  Pettigrew  again,  and  sit- 
ting down  gave  himself  up  sullenly  to  amorous  an- 
ticipation. .  .  . 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  girl's  voice  at  his  el- 
bow. 

"Fare,  please." 

He  turned  his  head,  and  saw  it  was  the  conduc- 
tress, a  slim,  compact  figure  swaying  easily  to  the 
lurch  of  the  vehicle.  Her  fingers  touched  his  as  she 
handed  him  the  ticket,  and  they  were  bitterly  cold. 

"Nice  night,  ain't  it?"  said  Mr.  Pettigrew. 

"Not  'arf,"  said  the  girl  philosophically.  "But 
there !  it  ain't  so  bad  for  us  's  what  it  is  for  them 
boys  in  the  trenches." 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Pettigrew  archly.  "Them  boys 
— 'im,  you  means." 

The  girl  shook  her  head  swiftly.  Seen  in  the 
gleam  of  a  passing  lamp,  her  face  was  pretty,  and 
glistening  with  rain.  "Not  me,"  she  said.  "There 
was  two — my  brothers — but  they  went  West. 
There's  only  me  left  .  .  .  carryin'  on."  The  bus 
lurched  violently,  causing  the  little  conductress  to 


THE  PORT  LOOK-OUT  187 

lose  her  balance,  and  her  weight  rested  momentarily 
against  Mr.  Pettigrew's  shoulder.  She  recovered 
her  equilibrium  instantly  without  self-consciousness, 
and  stood  looking  absently  ahead  into  the  darkness. 

"That's  what  weVe  all  got  to  do,  ain't  it?"  she 
said — "do  our  bit.  .  .  ." 

She  jingled  the  coppers  in  her  bag,  and  turned 
abruptly. 

Mr.  Pettigrew  watched  the  trim,  self-respecting 
little  figure  till  it  vanished  down  the  steps. 

"Oh,  'ell!"  he  groaned,  as  imperious  flesh  and 
immortal  spirit  awoke  to  renew  the  unending  com- 
bat. 

Five  minutes  later  the  conductress  reappeared  at 
Mr.  Pettigrew's  shoulder. 

"Waterloo,"  she  said.  "That's  where  all  you 
boys  gets  off,  ain't  it  .  .  .?  You're  for  Portsmouth, 
I  s'pose?" 

"That's  right,"  said  Mr.  Pettigrew.  He  jerked 
to  his  feet,  gripping  his  bundle,  and  made  for  the 
steps  with  averted  head.  "  'Night,"  he  said 
brusquely.  The  bus  slowed  and  stopped. 

"Good  luck,"  said  the  girl. 

The  port  look-out  gripped  the  bridge-rail  to 
steady  himself,  and  stared  out  through  the  driving 
spray  and  the  darkness  as  the  destroyer  thrashed 
her  way  down  Channel.  He  was  chosen  for  the  trick 
because  of  his  eyesight.  "I  gotter  eye  like  a  adjec- 
tive 'awk,"  Mr.  Pettigrew  was  wont  to  admit  in  his 


1 88  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

more  expansive  moments,  and  none  gainsaid  him  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  destroyer's  mess-deck. 
None  gainsaid  him  on  the  bridge  that  night  when 
suddenly  he  wheeled  inboard  and  bawled  at  the  full 
strength  of  his  lungs: 

"Objec'  on  the  port  bow,  sir  I" 

There  was  an  instant's  pause;  a  confused  shout- 
ing of  orders,  a  vision  of  the  coxswain  struggling  at 
the  kicking  wheel  as  the  helm  went  over,  and  a 
man's  clear  voice  saying — "By  God!  we've  got  her!" 

Then  came  the  stunning  shock  of  the  impact,  the 
grinding  crash  of  blunt  metal  shearing  metal,  more 
shouts,  faces  seen  white  for  an  instant  against  the 
dark  waters,  something  scraping  past  the  side  of  the 
forecastle,  and  finally  a  dull  explosion  aft. 

"Rammed  a  submarine  and  sunk  the  perisher!" 
shouted  the  yeoman  in  Mr.  Pettigrew's  ear.  "Wake 
up!  what  the  'ell's  up — are  ye  dazed?" 

Mr.  Pettigrew  was  considerably  more  dazed  when 
he  was  sent  for  the  following  day  in  harbour  by 
his  captain.  From  force  of  custom  on  obeying  such 
summonses,  the  ship's  black  sheep  removed  his  cap.1 

"Put  your  damned  cap  on,"  said  the  lieutenant- 
commander.  Mr.  Pettigrew  replaced  his  cap. 
"Now  shake  hands."  Mr.  Pettigrew  shook  hands. 
"Now  go  on  leave."  Mr.  Pettigrew  obeyed. 

For  forty  minutes  the  policeman  on  duty  outside 

*By  the   ancient  custom  of  the   Navy   a  defaulter   removes  his 
cap  when  his  case  is  investigated  by  the  captain. 


THE  PORT  LOOK-OUT  189 

Waterloo  Station  had  been  keeping  under  observa- 
tion a  rather  dejected-looking  bluejacket  carrying 
a  bundle,  and  standing  at  the  corner  scrutinising  the 
buses  as  they  passed.  Finally,  with  deliberate  meas- 
ured tread  he  approached  the  man  of  the  sea. 

"What  bus  do  you  want,  mate?" 

Mr.  Pettigrew  enlightened  him  as  to  the  num- 
ber. 

"There's  been  four  of  that  number  gone  past 
while  you  was  standin'  'ere,"  said  the  policeman,  not 
without  suspicion  in  his  tones. 

"I'm  very  partickler  about  buses,"  said  Mr.  Pet- 
tigrew coldly. 

"Well,"  said  the  constable,  "  'ere's  another  one." 

The  sailor  waited  till  it  slowed  up  abreast  of  them. 
His  blue  eyes  were  cocked  on  the  rear  end. 

"An'  this  'ere's  the  right  one,"  said  Mr.  Petti- 
grew. 

He  stepped  briskly  into  the  roadway,  ran  half 
a  dozen  paces,  and  swung  himself  on  to  the  foot- 
board beside  the  conductress. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  SURVIVOR 

w.  .  .  And    regrets    to    report    only    one    survivor." — Admiralty 
Announcement. 

fTIHE  glass  dropped  another  point,  and  the  cap- 
JL  tain  of  the  cruiser  glanced  for  the  hundredth 
time  from  the  lowering  sky  to  the  two  destroyers 
labouring  stubbornly  in  the  teeth  of  the  gale  on 
either  beam.  Then  he  gave  an  order  to  the  yeoman 
of  signals,  who  barked  its  repetition  to  the  shelter- 
deck  where  the  little  group  of  signalmen  stamped 
their  feet  and  blew  on  their  numbed  fingers  in  the 
lee  of  the  flag-lockers.  Two  of  the  group  scuffled 

190 


THE  SURVIVOR  191 

round  the  bright-coloured  bunting:  the  clips  of  the 
halliards  snapped  a  hoist  together,  and  vivid  against 
the  grey  sky  the  signal  went  bellying  and  fluttering 
to  the  masthead. 

The  figures  on  the  bridges  of  the  destroyers  wiped 
the  stinging  spray  from  their  swollen  eyelids  and 
read  the  message  of  comfort. 

"Return  to  base.  Weather  conditions  threaten- 
ing." 

They  surveyed  their  battered  bridges  and  fore- 
castles, their  stripped,  streaming  decks  and  guns' 
crews;  they  thought  of  hot  food,  warm  bunks,  dry 
clothing,  and  all  the  sordid  creature  comforts  for 
which  soul  and  body  yearn  so  imperiously  after 
three  years  of  North  Sea  warfare.  Their  answer- 
ing pendants  fluttered  acknowledgment,  and  they 
swung  round  on  the  path  for  home,  praising  Allah 
who  had  planted  in  the  brain  of  the  cruiser  captain 
a  consideration  for  the  welfare  of  his  destroyer 
screen. 

"If  this  is  what  they  call  'threatening/  "  observed 
the  senior  officer  of  the  two  boats,  as  his  command 
clove  shuddering  through  the  jade-green  belly  of  a 
mountainous  sea,  flinging  the  white  entrails  broad- 
cast, "if  this  is  merely  threatening  I  reckon  it's  about 
time  someone  said  'Home,  James  P  ' 

His  first  lieutenant  said  nothing.  He  had  spent 
three  winters  in  these  grey  wastes,  and  he  knew 
the  significance  of  that  unearthly  clear  visibility  and 
the  inky  clouds  banked  ahead  to  the  westward.  But 


i92  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

presently  he  looked  up  from  the  chart  and  nodded 
towards  the  menace  in  the  western  sky.  "That's 
snow,"  he  said.  "It  ought  to  catch  us  about  the 
time  we  shall  make  Scaw  Dhu  light." 

"We'll  hear  the  fog  buoy  all  right,"  said  the  cap- 
tain. 

"If  the  pipes  ain't  frozen,"  was  the  reply.  "It's 
perishing  cold."  He  ran  a  gauntletted  hand  along 
the  rail  and  extended  a  handful  of  frozen  spray. 
"That's  salt— and  frozen.  .  .  ." 

The  snow  came  as  he  had  predicted,  but  rather 
sooner.  It  started  with  great  whirling  flakes  like 
feathers  about  a  gull's  nesting-place,  a  soundless 
ethereal  vanguard  of  the  storm,  growing  momenta- 
rily  denser.  The  wind,  from  a  temporary  lull,  reawak- 
ened with  a  roar.  The  air  became  a  vast  witch's 
cauldron  of  white  and  brown  specks,  seething  before 
the  vision  in  a  veritable  Bacchanal  of  Atoms.  Sight 
became  a  lost  sense:  time,  space,  and  feeling  were 
overwhelmed  by  that  shrieking  fury  of  snow  and 
frozen  spray  thrashing  pitilessly  about  the  homing 
grey  hulls  and  the  bowed  heads  of  the  men  who 
clung  to  the  reeling  bridges. 

The  grey,  white-crested  seas  raced  hissing  along- 
side and,  as  the  engine-room  telegraphs  rang  again 
and  again  for  reduced  speed,  overtook  and  passed 
them.  Out  of  the  welter  of  snow  and  spray  the 
voices  of  the  leadsmen  chanting  soundings  reached 
the  ears  of  those  inboard  as  the  voice  of  a  doctor 


THE  SURVIVOR  193 

reaches  a  patient  in  delirium,  fruitlessly  reassur- 
ing. .  .  . 

Number  Three  of  the  midship  gun  on  board  the 
leading  destroyer  turned  for  the  comfort  of  his  soul 
from  the  contemplation  of  the  pursuing  seas  to  the 
forebridge,  but  snow-flakes  blotted  it  from  view. 
Providence,  as  he  was  accustomed  to  visualise  it  in 
the  guise  of  a  red-cheeked  lieutenant-commander, 
had  vanished  from  his  ken.  Number  Three  drew 
his  hands  from  his  pockets,  and  raising  them  to  his 
mouth  leaned  towards  the  gunlayer.  The  gunlayer 
was  also  staring  forward  as  if  his  vision  had  pierced 
that  whirling  grey  curtain  and  was  contemplating 
something  beyond  it,  infinitely  remote.  .  .  .  There 
was  a  concentrated  intensity  in  his  expression  not  un- 
like that  of  a  dog  when  he  raises  his  head  from  his 
paws  and  looks  towards  a  closed  door. 

"  'Ere,"  bawled  Number  Three,  seeking  comrade- 
ship in  an  oppressive,  indefinable  loneliness.  *  'Ow 
about  it — eh?  .  .  ."  The  wind  snatched  at  the 
meaningless  words  and  beat  them  back  between  his 
chattering  teeth. 

The  wind  backed  momentarily,  sundering  the  veil 
of  whirling  obscurity.  Through  this  rent  towered 
a  wall  of  rock,  streaked  all  about  with  driven  snow, 
at  the  foot  of  which  breakers  beat  themselves  into  a 
smoking  yeast  of  fury.  Gulls  were  wailing  over- 
head. Beneath  their  feet  the  engine  room  gongs 
clanged  madly. 

Then  they  struck. 


194  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

The  foremost  destroyer  checked  on  the  shoulder 
of  a  great  roller  as  if  incredulous :  shuddered :  struck 
again  and  lurched  over.  A  mountainous  sea  en- 
gulfed her  stern  and  broke  thundering  against  the 
after-funnel.  Steam  began  to  pour  in  dense  hissing 
clouds  from  the  engine-room  hatchways  and  ex- 
hausts. Her  consort  swept  past  with  screeching 
syren,  helpless  in  the  grip  of  the  backwash  for  all 
her  thrashing  propellers  that  strove  to  check  her 
headlong  way.  She  too  struck  and  recoiled:  sagged 
in  the  trough  of  two  stupendous  seas,  and  plunged 
forward  again.  .  .  .  Number  Three,  clinging  to  the 
greasy  breech-block  of  his  gun,  clenched  his  teeth 
at  the  sound  of  that  pitiless  grinding  which  seemed 
as  if  it  would  never  end.  .  .  . 

Of  the  ensuing  horror  he  missed  nothing,  yet  saw 
it  all  with  a  wondering  detachment.  A  wave  swept 
him  off  his  feet  against  a  funnel  stay,  and  receding, 
left  him  clinging  to  it  like  a  twist  of  waterlogged 
straw.  Hand  over  hand  he  crawled  higher,  and 
finally  hung  dangling  six  feet  above  the  highest  wave, 
legs  and  arms  round  about  the  wire  stay.  He  saw 
the  forecastle  break  off  like  a  stick  of  canteen  choco- 
late and  vanish  into  the  smother.  The  other  de- 
stroyer had  disappeared.  Beneath  him,  waist  deep 
in  boiling  eddies,  he  saw  men  labouring  about  a  raft, 
and  had  a  vision  of  their  upturned  faces  as  they 
were  swept  away.  The  thunder  of  the  surf  on  the 
beaches  close  at  hand  drowned  the  few  shouts  and 
cries  that  sounded.  The  wire  from  which  he  dan- 


THE  SURVIVOR  195 

gled  jarred  and  twanged  like  a  banjo-string,  as  the 
triumphant  seas  beat  the  soul  out  of  the  wreck  be- 
neath him. 

A  funnel-stay  parted,  and  amid  clouds  of  smoke 
and  steam  the  funnel  slowly  began  to  list  over  the 
side.  Number  Three  of  the  midship  gun  clung 
swaying  like  a  wind-tossed  branch  above  the  mael- 
strom of  seething  water  till  a  wave  drove  over  the 
already-unrecognisable  hull  of  the  destroyer,  leaped 
hungrily  at  the  dangling  human  figure  and  tore  him 
from  his  hold. 

Bitterly  cold  water  and  a  suffocating  darkness 
engulfed  him.  Something  clawed  at  his  face  and 
fastened  on  to  his  shoulder;  he  wrenched  himself 
free  from  the  nerveless  clutch  without  ruth  or  under- 
standing; his  booted  heel  struck  a  yielding  object  as 
he  struggled  surfaceward,  kicking  wildly  like  a 
swimming  frog  .  .  .  the  blackness  became  streaked 
with  grey  light  and  pinpoints  of  fire.  Number 
Three  had  a  conviction  that  unless  the  next  few 
strokes  brought  him  to  the  surface  it  would  be  too 
late.  Then  abruptly  the  clamour  of  the  wind  and 
sea,  and  the  shriek  of  the  circling  gulls  smote  his 
ears  again.  He  was  back  on  the  surface  once  more, 
gulping  greedy  lungfuls  of  air. 

A  wave  caught  him  and  hurled  him  forward  on 
its  crest,  spread-eagled,  feebly  continuing  the  mo- 
tions of  a  swimmer.  It  spent  itself,  and  to  husband 
his  strength  the  man  turned  on  his  back,  moving  his 
head  from  side  to  side  to  take  in  his  surroundings. 


196  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

He  was  afloat  (he  found  it  surpisingly  easy  to 
keep  afloat)  inside  a  narrow  bay.  On  both  sides 
the  black  cliffs  rose,  all  streaked  with  snow,  out  of 
a  thunderous  welter  of  foam.  The  tide  sobbed 
and  lamented  in  the  hollows  of  unseen  caverns,  or 
sluiced  the  length  of  a  ledge  to  plash  in  cascades 
down  the  face  of  the  cliff. 

The  snow  had  abated,  and  in  the  gathering  dusk 
the  broken  water  showed  ghostly  white.  To  sea- 
ward the  gale  drove  the  smoking  rollers  in  successive 
onslaughts  against  the  reef  where  the  battered  re- 
mains of  the  two  destroyers  lay.  All  about  the  dis- 
torted plating  and  tangle  of  twisted  stanchions  the 
surf  broke  as  if  in  a  fury  of  rapine  and  destruc- 
tion. .  .  . 

Another  wave  gripped  him  and  rushed  him  shore- 
ward again.  The  thunder  of  the  surf  redoubled. 
"Hi!  hi!  hi!  hi!"  screeched  the  storm-tossed  gulls. 
Number  Three  of  the  midship  gun  abandoned  his 
efforts  to  swim  and  covered  his  face  with  his  soggy 
sleeve.  It  was  well  not  to  look  ahead.  The  wave 
seemed  to  be  carrying  him  towards  the  cliffs  at  the 
speed  of  an  express  train.  He  wondered  if  the  rocks 
would  hurt  much,  beating  out  his  life.  .  .  .  He  tried 
desperately  to  remember  a  prayer,  but  all  he  could 
recall  was  a  sermon  he  had  once  listened  to  on  the 
quarter-deck,  one  drowsy  summer  morning  at  Malta. 
.  .  .  About  coming  to  Jesus  on  the  face  of  the  wa- 
ters. .  .  .  "And  Jesus  said  'come.'  .  .  .  Fair  whiz- 
zing along,  he  was.  .  .  . 


THE  SURVIVOR  197 

Again  the  wave  spent  itself,  and  the  man  was 
caught  in  the  backwash,  drawn  under,  rolled  over 
and  over,  spun  round  and  round,  gathered  up  in 
the  watery  embrace  of  another  roller  and  flung  up 
on  all  fours  on  a  shelving  beach.  Furiously  he 
clawed  at  the  retreating  pebbles,  lurched  to  his  feet, 
staggered  forward  a  couple  of  paces,  and  fell  on 
hands  and  knees  on  the  fringe  of  a  snow-drift. 
There  he  lay  awhile,  panting  for  breath. 

He  was  conscious  of  an  immense  amazement, 
and,  mingled  with  it,  an  inexplicable  pride.  He  was 
still  alive!  It  was  an  astounding  achievement,  be- 
ing the  solitary  survivor  of  all  those  officers  and  men, 
But  he  had  always  considered  himself  a  bit  out  of 
the  ordinary.  .  .  .  Once  he  had  entered  for  a  race 
at  the  annual  sports  at  the  Naval  Barracks,  Devon- 
port.  He  had  never  run  a  race  before  in  his  life, 
and  he  won.  It  seemed  absurdly  easy.  "Bang!" 
went  the  pistol:  off  they  went,  helter-skelter,  teeth 
clenched,  fists  clenched,  hearts  pounding,  specta- 
tors a  blur,  roaring  encouragement.  .  .  . 

He  won,  and  experienced  the  identical  astonished 
gratification  that  he  felt  now. 

uYou  runs  like  a  adjective  'are,  Bill,"  his  chum 
had  admitted,  plying  the  hero  with  beer  at  the  little 
pub  halfway  up  the  cobbled  hill  by  the  dockyard. 

Then  he  remembered  other  chums,  shipmates,  and 
one  in  particular  called  Nobby.  He  rose  into  a  sit- 
ting position,  staring  seaward.  Through  the  gloom 
the  tumult  of  the  seas,  breaking  over  the  reef  on 


198  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

which  they  had  foundered,  glimmered  white.  The 
man  rose  unsteadily  to  his  feet;  he  was  alone  on  the 
beach  of  a  tiny  cove  with  his  back  to  forbidding 
cliffs.  Save  where  his  own  footsteps  showed  black, 
the  snow  was  unmarked,  stretching  in  an  unbroken 
arc  from  one  side  of  the  cove  to  the  other.  The 
solitary  figure  limped  to  the  edge  of  the  surf  and 
peered  through  the  stinging  scud.  Then,  raising  his 
hands  to  his  mouth,  he  began  to  call  for  his  lost 
mate. 

"Nobby!"  he  shouted,  and  again  and  again, 
"Nobby!  Nobby!  .  .  .  Nob-bee-e!".  .  .  . 

"Nobby,"  echoed  the  cliffs  behind,  disinterestedly. 

"Hi!    Hi!    Hi!"  mocked  the  gulls. 

The  survivor  waded  knee-deep  into  the  froth  of 
an  incoming  sea. 

"Ahoy!"  he  bawled  to  the  driving  snow-flakes 
and  spindrift.  His  voice  sounded  cracked  and  feeble. 
He  tried  to  shout  again,  but  the  thunder  of  the 
waves  beat  the  sound  to  nothing. 

He  retraced  his  steps  and  paused  to  look  round 
at  the  implacable  face  of  the  cliff,  at  the  burden 
of  snow  that  seemed  to  overhang  the  summit,  then 
stared  again  to  seaward.  A  wave  broke  hissing 
about  his  feet:  the  tide  was  coming  in. 

Up  to  that  moment  fear  had  passed  him  by.  He 
had  been  in  turn  bewildered,  incredulous,  cold,  sick, 
bruised,  but  sustained  throughout  by  the  furious 
animal  energy  which  the  body  summons  in  a  fight 
for  life.  Now,  however,  with  the  realisation  of  his 


THE  SURVIVOR  199 

loneliness  in  the  gathering  darkness,  fear  smote  him. 
In  fear  he  was  as  purely  animal  as  he  had  been  in 
his  moments  of  blind  courage.  He  turned  from  the 
darkling  sea  that  had  claimed  chum  and  shipmates, 
and  floundered  through  the  snow-drifts  to  the  base 
of  the  cliff.  Then,  numbed  with  cold,  and  well-nigh 
spent,  he  began  frantically  to  scale  the  shelving  sur- 
faces of  the  rock. 

Barnacles  tore  the  flesh  from  his  hands  and  the 
nails  from  his  finger-tips  as  he  clawed  desperately 
at  the  crevices  for  a  hold.  Inch  by  inch,  foot  by 
foot  he  fought  his  way  upwards  from  the  threaten- 
ing clutch  of  the  hungry  tide,  leaving  a  crimson 
stain  at  every  niche  where  the  snow  had  gathered. 
Thrice  he  slipped  and  slithered  downwards,  bruised 
and  torn,  to  renew  his  frantic  efforts  afresh.  Finally 
he  reached  a  broad  shelf  of  rock,  halfway  up  the 
surface  of  the  cliff,  and  there  rested  awhile,  whim- 
pering softly  to  himself  at  the  pain  of  his  flayed 
hands. 

Presently  he  rose  again  and  continued  the  dizzy 
ascent.  None  but  a  sailor  or  an  experienced  rock- 
climber  would  have  dreamed  of  attempting  such  a 
feat  single-handed,  well-nigh  in  the  dark.  Even 
had  he  reached  the  top  he  could  not  have  walked 
three  yards  in  the  dense  snow-drifts  that  had  gath- 
ered all  along  the  edge  of  the  cliffs.  But  the  climber 
knew  nothing  about  that;  he  was  in  search  of  terra 
firma,  something  that  was  not  slippery  rock  or  shift- 
ing pebbles,  somewhere  out  of  reach  of  the  sea. 


200  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

He  was  within  six  feet  of  the  summit  when  he 
lost  a  foothold,  slipped,  grabbed  at  a  projecting 
knob  of  rock,  slipped  again,  and  so  slipping  and 
bumping  and  fighting  for  every  inch,  he  slid  heavily 
down  on  to  his  ledge  again. 

He  lay  bruised  and  breathless  where  he  fell. 
That  tumble  came  near  to  finishing  matters;  it 
winded  him — knocked  the  fight  out  of  him.  But  a 
wave,  last  and  highest  of  the  tide,  sluiced  over  the 
ledge  and  immersed  his  shivering  body  once  more 
in  icy  water;  the  unreasoning  terror  of  the  pursuing 
tide  that  had  driven  him  up  the  face  of  the  cliff 
whipped  him  to  his  feet  again. 

He  backed  against  the  rock,  staring  out  through 
the  driving  spindrift  into  the  menace  of  the  dark- 
ness. There  ought  to  be  another  wave  any  mo- 
ment: then  there  would  be  another:  and  after  that 
perhaps  another.  The  next  one  then  would  get  him. 
He  was  too  weak  to  climb  again.  .  .  . 

The  seconds  passed  and  merged  into  minutes.  The 
wind  came  at  him  out  of  the  darkness  like  invisible 
knives  thrown  to  pin  him  to  a  wall.  The  cold 
numbed  his  intelligence,  numbed  even  his  fear.  He 
heard  the  waves  breaking  all  about  him  in  a  wild 
pandemonium  of  sound,  but  it  was  a  long  time  be- 
fore he  realised  that  no  more  had  invaded  his  ledge, 
and  a  couple  of  hours  before  it  struck  him  that  the 
tide  had  turned.  .  .  . 

Towards  midnight  he  crawled  down  from  his 
ledge  and  followed  the  retreating  tide  across  the 


THE  SURVIVOR  201 

slippery  shale,  pausing  every  few  minutes  to  listen 
to  the  uproar  of  sea  and  wind.  An  illusion  of  hear- 
ing human  voices  calling  out  of  the  gale  mocked 
him  with  strange  persistence.  Once  or  twice  he 
stumbled  over  a  dark  mass  of  weed  stranded  by  the 
retreating  tide,  and  each  time  bent  down  to  finger 
it  apprehensively. 

Dawn  found  him  back  in  the  shelter  of  his  cleft, 
scraping  limpets  from  their  shells  for  a  breakfast. 
The  day  came  slowly  over  a  grey  sea,  streaked  and 
smeared  like  the  face  of  an  old  woman  after  a  night 
of  weeping.  Of  the  two  destroyers  nothing  broke 
the  surface.  It  was  nearly  high  water,  and  what- 
ever remained  of  their  battered  hulls  was  covered 
by  a  tumultuous  sea.  They  were  swallowed.  The 
sea  had  taken  them — them  and  a  hundred-odd  officers 
and  men,  old  shipmates,  messmates,  townies,  rag- 
gies — just  swallowed  the  lot.  .  .  .  He  still  owed 
last  month's  mess-bill  to  the  caterer  of  his  mess. 
.  .  .  He  put  his  torn  hands  before  his  eyes  and 
strove  to  shut  out  the  awful  grey  desolation  of  that 
greedy  sea. 

During  the  forenoon  a  flotilla  of  destroyers  passed 
well  out  to  seaward.  They  were  searching  the  coast 
for  signs  of  the  wrecks,  and  the  spray  blotted  them 
intermittently  from  sight  as  they  wallowed  at  slow 
speed  through  the  grey  seas. 

The  survivor  watched  them  and  waved  his  jumper 
tied  to  a  piece  of  drift-wood ;  but  they  were  too  far 
off  to  see  him  against  the  dark  rocks.  They  passed 


202  THE  NAVY  ETERNAD 

round  a  headland,  and  the  wan  figure,  half  frozen 
and  famished,  crawled  back  into  his  cleft  like  a 
stricken  animal,  dumb  with  cold  and  suffering.  It 
was  not  until  the  succeeding  low  water,  when  the 
twisted  ironwork  was  showing  black  above  the 
broken  water  on  the  reef,  that  another  destroyer 
hove  in  sight.  She  too  was  searching  for  her  lost 
sisters,  and  the  castaway  watched  her  alter  course 
and  nose  cautiously  towards  the  cove.  Then  she 
stopped  and  went  astern. 

The  survivor  brandished  his  extemporised  signal 
of  distress  and  emitted  a  dull  croaking  sound  be- 
tween his  cracked  lips.  A  puff  of  white  steam  ap- 
peared above  the  destroyer's  bridge,  and  a  second 
later  the  reassuring  hoot  of  a  siren  floated  in  from 
the  offing.  They  had  seen  him. 

A  sudden  reaction  seized  his  faculties.  Almost 
apathetically  he  watched  a  sea-boat  being  lowered, 
saw  it  turn  and  come  towards  him,  rising  and  fall- 
ing on  the  heavy  seas,  but  always  coming  nearer 
...  he  didn't  care  much  whether  they  came  or  not 
— he  was  that  cold.  The  very  marrow  of  his  bones 
seemed  to  be  frozen.  They'd  have  to  come  and 
fetch  him  if  they  wanted  him.  He  was  too  cold 
to  move  out  of  his  cleft. 

The  boat  was  very  near.  It  was  a  whaler,  and 
the  bowman  had  boated  his  oar,  and  was  crouching 
in  the  bows  with  a  heaving-line  round  his  forearm. 
The  boat  was  plunging  wildly,  and  spray  was  flying 
from  under  her.  The  cliffs  threw  back  the  orders 


THE  SURVIVOR  203 

of  the  officer  at  the  tiller  as  he  peered  ahead  from 
under  his  tarpaulin  souVester  with  anxiety  written 
on  every  line  of  his  weather-beaten  face.  He  didn't 
fancy  the  job,  that  much  was  plain;  and  indeed,  small 
blame  to  him.  It  was  no  light  undertaking,  nursing 
a  small  boat  close  in  to  a  dead  lee  shore,  with  the 
aftermath  of  such  a  gale  still  running. 

They  came  still  closer,  and  the  heaving  line  hissed 
through  the  air  to  fall  at  the  castaway's  feet. 

"Tie  it  round  your  middle,"  shouted  the  lieuten- 
ant. "You'll  have  to  jump  for  it — we'll  pull  you 
inboard  all  right." 

The  survivor  obeyed  dully,  reeled  to  the  edge  of 
his  ledge  and  slid  once  more  into  the  bitterly  cold 
water. 

Half  a  dozen  hands  seemed  to  grasp  him  simulta- 
neously, and  he  was  hauled  over  the  gunwale  of  the 
boat  almost  before  he  realised  he  had  left  his  ledge. 
A  flask  was  crammed  between  his  chattering  teeth; 
someone  wound  fold  upon  fold  of  blanket  round 
him. 

"Any  more  of  you,  mate?"  said  a  voice  anxiously; 
and  then,  "Strike  me  blind  if  it  ain't  old  Bill!" 

The  survivor  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  the  face 
of  the  bowman  contemplating  him  above  his  cork 
lifebelt.  It  was  a  vaguely  familiar  face.  They  had 
been  shipmates  somewhere  once.  Barracks,  Devon- 
port,  p'raps  it  was.  He  blinked  the  tears  out  of  his 
eyes  and  coughed  as  the  raw  spirit  ran  down  his 
throat. 


204  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

"Any  more  of  you,  Bill,  ole  lad?" 

The  survivor  shook  his  head. 

"There's  no  one/'  he  said,  "  'cept  me.  I'm  the 
only  one  what's  lef  outer  two  ships'  companies." 
Again  the  lost  feeling  of  bewildered  pride  crept 
back. 

"You  always  was  a  one,  Bill!"  said  the  bowman 
in  the  old  familiar  accent  of  hero-worship. 

The  survivor  nodded  confirmation.  "Not  'arf  I 
ain't,"  he  said  appreciatively.  "Sole  survivor  I  am!" 
And  held  out  his  hand  again  for  the  flask.  "Christ  I 
look  at  my  'andsl" 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  NTH  BATTLE  SQUADRON 

NO  propaganda  poster  artist  with  an  eye  to  lurid 
backgrounds  could  have  secured  such  an  effect. 
Great  buttresses  of  cloud,  inky  black  with  their  bur- 
den of  unshed  snow,  were  banked  about  the  sunset. 
The  snow  that  had  fallen  during  the  past  week  rested 
like  a  shroud  upon  peak  and  headland,  promontory 
and  cliff-top,  encircling  the  sombre  waters  of  Ultima 
Thule  with  a  dazzling  white  girdle.  Against  this 
background  lay  the  Grand  Fleet,  an  agglomeration 
of  tripod  masts  and  superimposed  structures,  as  fa- 
miliar a  feature  of  the  scene  as  the  surf  that  broke 
endlessly  about  the  cliffs,  or  the  unappeased  calling 
of  the  gulls.  A  little  to  the  westward,  however, 
where  the  cloud-masonry  was  split  and  reft  by  crim- 
son shafts  of  light,  an  outstretched  wing  of  the  vast 
battle  fleet  struck  an  oddly  unfamiliar  note.  Instead 
of  the  tripod  masts  and  hooded  control-tops,  slender 

205 


206  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

towers  of  latticed  steel  rose  in  pairs  from  each  hull. 
Against  the  black  clouds,  every  ensign  in  the  fleet 
was  clearly  discernible;  but  it  was  not  the  White 
Ensign  that  showed  up  so  vividly  above  the  strang- 
ers. It  was  the  "Stars  and  Stripes"  painted  with 
the  glory  of  a  northern  winter  sunset. 

Only  a  few  weeks  had  elapsed  since  they  arrived, 
rust-streaked  and  travel-stained,  as  ships  might  well 
be  that  had  battled  through  one  winter  gale  after 
another  from  Chesapeake  Bay  to  Ultima  Thule; 
and  at  the  sight  of  them  the  grey,  war-weary  battle 
fleet  of  Britain  burst  into  a  ,roar  of  welcome  such 
as  had  never  before  greeted  a  stranger  within  its 
gates  in  either  peace  or  war.  For — and  herein  lies 
the  magic  of  the  thing — these  were  not  merely  allies 
swinging  up  on  to  the  flank  of  a  common  battle-line, 
but  kinsmen  joining  kinsmen  as  an  integral  part  of 
one  fleet.  The  rattle  of  their  cables  through  the 
hawse  pipes  was  drowned  by  the  tumult  of  cheering, 
and  forthwith  the  American  Admiral  despatched  a 
telegram  to  Washington,  whose  laconic  business-like 
brevity  alone  did  justice  to  what  may  prove  the 
most  significant  message  of  history:  "Arrived  as  per 
schedule,"  it  said. 

This  linking  of  the  two  navies  may  need  an  ex- 
planation. It  may  be  asked  (it  will  be  asked  if  I 
know  anything  of  the  talkers  in  this  war)  :  Could 
not  the  American  Fleet  co-operate  in  the  war  with- 
out merging  its  identity  in  that  of  the  British?  The 
answer  is  this:  Victory  in  modern  naval  warfare 


THE  NTH  BATTLE  SQUADRON     207 

demands  more  than  mere  co-operation  between  al- 
lied squadrons.  Navies  fight  otherwise  than  armies, 
whose  generals  can  meet  and  confer  even  during 
the  crisis  of  a  battle.  Squadrons  working  in  unity 
afloat  require  one  controlling  intellect,  one  source 
of  orders  and  information;  one  pair  of  shoulders, 
and  one  only,  to  take  the  burden  of  final  respon- 
sibility. 

Hence,  to  the  sure  shield  of  civilisation  and  the 
allied  cause  has  been  added  a  formidable  buckler. 
The  Grand  Fleet  has  had  grafted  into  its  side  a 
new  rib  and  a  stout  one. 

It  must  be  realised,  however,  that  a  common 
speech  between  two  nations  does  not  necessarily 
mean  that  their  respective  navies  talk  in  the  same 
tongue.  The  system  of  signalling  in  the  American 
Fleet,  the  significance  of  flags,  the  arrangement  of 
codes  and  ciphers,  are  peculiarly  and  completely 
theirs.  The  meanings  of  the  flags  had  nothing  in 
common  with  the  British.  Their  system  has  been 
evolved  through  generations;  is,  so  to  speak,  their 
navy's  mother  tongue.  The  signalmen  of  the  Nth 
Battle  Squadron,  blowing  on  their  numbed  fingers 
amid  the  snows  of  Ultima  Thule,  had  to  forget  in 
twenty-four  hours  what  had  been  laboriously  taught 
them  for  years.  They  had  to  master  a  different- 
coloured  alphabet  as  it  is  sighted  two  miles  away 
tangled  up  in  halliards  or  half  obscured  by  funnel 
and  (mayhap)  battle  smoke.  Manoeuvres  on  a 
scale  they  had  hitherto  regarded  as  exceptional: 


208  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

Fleet  exercises  and  squadron  competition,  intership 
signalese  (whereby  the  movement  of  a  semaphore 
arm  through  fifteen  degrees  of  the  arc  meant  things 
undreamed  of  in  their  philosophy),  tricks  which 
northern  visibility  plays  with  daylight  signalling — 
these  things  were  their  daily  and  nightly  portion. 

In  the  words  of  one  of  them,  "it  was  a  tough 
proposition,"  and  they  tackled  it  like  tigers.  In  a 
fortnight  they  were  through  with  it.  In  a  month 
the  British  signal  boatswains  rubbed  their  telescope 
lenses  and  said  they  were  damned. 

But  the  communication  problem  didn't  end  there. 
Wireless  plays  an  even  more  important  part  than 
visual  signalling  in  naval  warfare.  It  is  important 
enough  in  peace,  and  the  American  Fleet  had  by  no 
means  neglected  the  subject.  But  aerial  conditions 
in  the  region  of  Manilla  differ  considerably  from 
those  in  the  North  Sea.  Speaking  radiographically, 
the  North  Sea  is  the  most  crowded  thoroughfare  in 
the  world.  All  through  the  twenty-four  hours  ships 
and  submarines  and  shore  wireless  stations  are  talk- 
ing, talking,  talking.  British  warnings  to  shipping 
on  its  lawful  occasions,  streams  of  lies  from  Berlin 
(branded  at  the  outset  "German  Press  Message") 
cipher  cryptograms  from  three  Admiralties,  destroy- 
ers bleating  in  a  fog,  appeals  from  a  hunted  mer- 
chantman— all  these  interspersed  with  the  gibbering 
Telefunken  of  the  German  submarine. 

Now  the  American  wireless  experts  have  been 
concerned  principally  with  covering  long  distances. 


THE  NTH  BATTLE  SQUADRON     209 

The  development  of  "spark"  and  power  in  a  com- 
paratively undisturbed  ether  was  the  main  preoccu- 
pation of  their  operators.  From  this  serene  condi- 
tion, ships  and  silent  cabinets  passed  into  the  windy 
parrot-house  of  the  North  Sea.  Here,  power,  as 
they  understood  the  term,  was  negligible.  The 
greatest  distance  required  of  their  Hertzian  waves 
was  a  preposterous  400  miles  or  so.  But  not  only 
had  they  to  thread  a  way  unbroken  through  this 
aerial  Babel,  but,  what  was  even  more  difficult,  the 
operator  was  required  to  detect  and  read  messages 
on  one  tune  in  a  vast  discord  of  diverse  and  unfa- 
miliar notes.  It  is  even  said  that  an  Englishman's 
touch  on  a  sending  key  differs  from  that  of  an  Amer- 
ican as  radically  as  the  spoken  accent  differs.  Yet, 
after  a  month  of  assiduous  practice,  the  former  are 
in  a  fair  way  to  presenting  as  few  difficulties  to  com- 
munication as  the  latter. 

So  much  for  the  technical  aspect  of  the  affair. 
But  there  is  another  to  consider :  each  nation  having 
evolved,  perfected,  and  adopted  a  system,  considers 
it,  ipso  facto,  the  best  system  in  the  world.  To  ask 
a  segment  of  that  nation  to  dump  the  cherished 
thing  overboard  and  adopt  the  theory  and  practice 
of  another  nation  "likely  not  so  good"  is  demanding 
much.  That  the  order  was  obeyed  instantly  goes 
without  saying.  But  let  it  be  noted  that  it  was 
obeyed  in  a  spirit  of  uncritical  loyalty  and  whole- 
souled  enthusiasm  by  every  man  concerned  from  Ad- 


210  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

miral  to  Signal  Boy.    To  this  the  British  Command- 
er-in-Chief  has  testified. 

But  after  all,  these  matters  are  merely  externals. 
In  adopting  British  methods  of  communications  and 
staff  work  for  the  smooth  working  of  the  whole,  the 
American  ships  have  not  lost  a  jot  of  their  identity. 
Their  customs  remain,  with  their  traditions,  Ameri- 
can— indeed,  they  are  but  thrown  into  stronger  re- 
lief; and  the  British  Fleet  around  them  is  noting, 
drawing  comparisons  with  intent  interest,  as  two 
scions  of  the  same  family  might  meet  and  study 
gesture  or  physiognomy,  searching  eagerly  for  kin- 
dred traits.  And  daily  the  bonds  are  tightening. 

The  Admiral  commanding  the  force  of  Ameri- 
can battleships  which  constitutes  the  Nth  Battle 
Squadron  of  the  Grand  Fleet  stood  and  thawed  be- 
fore the  burnished  radiator  in  his  cabin. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "you've  spent  a  day  on  board 
this  ship.  What  struck  you  most?  what  remains 
your  most  vivid  impression? 

I  had  been  waiting  for  the  question,  and  wonder- 
ing what  the  deuce  I  was  going  to  say.  A  man 
who  spends  ten  crowded  hours  in  unfamiliar  sur- 
roundings, trying  to  draw  comparisons  between  them 
and  his  accustomed  environment,  finds  his  impres- 
sions at  the  end  of  it  like  a  jigsaw  puzzle  that  has 
been  upset. 

I  looked  at  him  as  he  stood  taking  me  in,  and 
in  the  quizzical,  humorous  smile  hovering  about  his 


THE  NTH  BATTLE  SQUADRON     211 

eyes,  in  the  set  of  his  very  imperturbable  moath,  in 
his  wholly  comfortable  attitude  before  the  radiator, 
I  read  my  answer.  It  was  something  that  had  been 
struggling  for  expression  at  the  back  of  my  brain 
all  day. 

"Well,  sir,"  I  said  (and  then  wished  I  could  have 
embarked  on  my  explanation  as  our  sailors  do  with 
"It's  like  this  'ere,  sir"),  "to  all  intents  and  purposes 
you've  dropped  out  of  the  skies  plop  into  the  middle 
of  the  Grand  Fleet.  It's  a  fleet  that  has  been  3J4 
years  at  war.  It  belongs  to  the  oldest  and  most 
conservative — if  not  the  proudest — navy  in  the 
world.  It's  got  the  Armada  and  the  Nile  and  Cop- 
enhagen and  Trafalgar  and  Jutland  to  its  credit, 
and,  I  fancy,  it  takes  a  largish  size  in  hats  on  the 
strength  of  it.  It  certainly  has  a  standard  by  which 
to  judge  strangers." 

"Sure,"  said  the  Admiral  softly,  with  his  eyes  on 
the  far-off  snowy  hills. 

I  took  a  long  breath.  I'm  not  used  to  making 
stump  speeches  to  admirals.  "Well,  from  the  mo- 
ment your  ships  rounded  that  headland  the  British 
Fleet  has  been  sizing  you  up.  Every  boat  that  is 
manned  and  leaves  your  ship,  every  officer  or  man 
who  moves  about  your  decks,  is  being  watched  and 
criticised  and  studied  by  several  thousand  pairs  of 
eyes.  You  live  in  the  limelight" 

"Sure,"  said  the  Admiral,  so  softly  that  it  was 
hardly  more  than  a  gentle  expiration  between  his 


212  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

teeth.  He  may  have  been  wondering  when  I  was 
coming  to  the  point. 

"Well,  sir,"  I  continued,  "all  that  is  apt  to  make 
a  very  good  man  indeed  self-conscious.  I  came  over 
on  the  look-out  for  self-consciousness,  like  a  lady 
visitor  looks  out  for  wet  paint  on  board.  I've  been 
ten  hours  in  your  flagship,  and  I've  talked  to  sam- 
ples of  every  rank  and  rating.  I've  only  seen  one 
person  self-conscious  under  friendly  scrutiny." 

"Ah?"  said  the  Admiral.  His  eyebrows  lifted  a 
shade. 

"I  caught  sight  of  myself  in  a  looking-glass,"  I 
explained 

Not  that  this  absence  of  self-consciousness  is  the 
outcome  of  indifference.  The  American  Squadron 
is  keenly  alive  to  the  intent  observation  it  is  under- 
going. Its  method  of  showing  how  aware  was  per- 
haps the  most  graceful  imaginable.  For  a  few  days 
it  visited  one  of  the  fleet's  more  southerly  bases,  and 
the  ships'  companies  were  given  leave  to  visit  a  great 
town.  Six  thousand  five  hundred  men  availed  them- 
selves of  this  permission.  They  were  greeted  by  the 
inhabitants  with  an  enthusiasm  that  might  well  have 
thrown  a  staider  and  older  set  of  men  off  their  bal- 
ance. The  traditional  British  methods  of  extending 
hospitality  were  thrust  upon  these  youngsters  fresh 
from  a  long  and  arduous  voyage.  It  might  have  re- 
sulted in  a  tamasha  that  would  have  made  the  mem- 
ory of  Mafeking  night  seem  like  a  temperance  re- 
vival by  comparison.  Yet  when  those  six  thousand 


THE  NTH  BATTLE  SQUADRON     213 

five  hundred  mortal  men  returned  to  their  ships  and 
the  bonds  of  discipline — nine  only  were  slightly  un- 
der the  influence  of  liquor.  Nine  all  told. 

Apropos  of  this  visit,  it  may  be  added  that  it  oc- 
curred at  Christmas-time.  Now,  the  flagship  of  the 
American  Squadron  is,  I  believe,  known  in  the 
United  States  as  the  "Christmas-ship. "  Americans 
are  all  probably  familiar  with  the  origin  of  this 
name;  but  for  the  benefit  of  my  own  countrymen, 
I  must  relate  their  pretty  tradition.  Every  Christ- 
mas Day  this  particular  ship  lies  in  New  York  har- 
bour; on  Christmas  Eve  the  crew  goes  ashore  into 
the  slums  and  Bowery,  and  every  man  invites  a  child 
to  a  dinner  on  board  the  following  day.  The  little 
guests  are  carefully  chosen.  They  are  the  type  of 
child  that  would  not  otherwise  eat  a  Christmas  din- 
ner, would  not  probably  eat  a  dinner  at  all.  The 
poorest  of  the  poor,  from  gutter  and  dive  and  arch- 
way. And  not  only  do  these  pathetic  little  guests  get 
dinner,  but  also  a  suit  of  clothes,  a  toy,  and  a  present 
of  money. 

For  the  first  time  the  Christmas  just  passed  found 
the  "Christmas-ship's"  moorings  in  New  York  har- 
bour empty.  She  was  lying  at  the  base  I  have  re- 
ferred to  within  reach  of  a  great  British  city.  But 
the  tradition  remained  the  same.  They  had  forty- 
eight  hours  in  which  to  arrange  the  whole  thing, 
but  they  did  it.  They  added  one  stipulation  that  has 
not  been  laid  down  in  New  York.  Preference  was 


2i4  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

to  be  given  in  the  matter  of  selection  to  those  waifs 
whose  fathers  had  laid  down  their  lives  in  battle. 

Britannia,  noting  this  story,  may  remember  and 
echo  the  words  of  the  greatest  of  all  child  lovers: 

"Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  the  least  of 
these  .  .  ." 

To  the  naval  officer  a  ship's  personnel  is  neces- 
sarily an  absorbing  study.  The  human  element  is 
one  in  which  he  works  and  lives,  and  whatever  the 
development  of  the  machine,  man  and  his  ways 
afloat  must  ever  remain  the  primary  factor  in  a 
navy's  efficiency.  It  goes  without  saying  that  when 
the  personnel  belongs  to  the  ship  of  another  nation 
the  interest  is  largely  charged  with  curiosity. 

I  attempted  to  convey  something  of  this  interest 
to  the  captain  of  an  American  battleship,  who  was 
my  host  for  the  day.  We  were  sitting  in  his  cabin; 
and  the  talk  had  ranged  from  the  Yukon  to  Brooklyn 
Yard,  and  was  what  a  certain  weekly  paper  would 
call  "Mainly  About  People." 

I  hinted  at  my  interest  in  the  men  not  without 
diffidence,  because  to  ask  the  captain  of  a  man-of- 
war  if  you  can  go  and  look  at  his  ship's  company 
as  a  matter  of  curiosity  is  tantamount  to  demanding 
leave  of  a  stranger  to  go  and  smoke  a  pipe  in  his 
nursery  while  his  children  are  being  bathed.  A  mess 
deck  is  an  intimate  place. 

"Want  to  see  the  men?"  he  echoed,  and  thrust 
on  his  cap.  "I'll  show  'em  to  you."  He  was  a 


THE  NTH  BATTLE  SQUADRON     215 

mighty  man  possessing  volcanic  energy  and  a  voice 
designed  to  carry  orders  through  a  gale.  "Come 
right  along." 

We  plunged  straightway  into  the  seething  life  of 
the  mess-deck  and  living  spaces  of  the  great  ship, 
the  captain  leading;  and  as  we  threaded  a  path  for- 
ward, men  stepped  aside,  stood  quietly  to  attention, 
until  we  passed,  and  resumed  their  tasks  or  leisure. 
Workshops,  kitchens,  laundry,  bakeries,  jlental  sur- 
gery, sick  bay,  mess-rooms,  round  we  went  in  a 
swift,  slightly  bewildering  rush,  while  the  "owner" 
jerked  explanations  over  his  shoulder.  He  displayed 
a  familiarity  with  the  details  of  it  all  that  was  to 
say  the  least  of  it  interesting  to  one  of  another  navy, 
whose  captains  claim  to  be  not  indifferent  "ships' 
husbands." 

Our  whirlwind  tour  carried  us  into  a  speckless 
electric  bakery  piled  high  with  fragrant  loaves.  The 
captain  had  flung  open  and  closed  the  door  of  an 
oven  secured  by  an  ingenious  but  rather  complicated 
latch.  As  we  emerged  I  commented  on  his  evident 
familiarity  with  the  internal  fitting  of  his  ship's  bak- 
ery. "Built  her,"  he  explained,  and  plunged,  doffing 
his  cap,  into  the  sick  bay.  There  were  over  a  thou- 
sand men  on  board,  and  about  half  a  dozen  of  them' 
had  found  their  way  here. 

"Well,  T ,"  said  the  captain,  addressing  by 

name  an  able  seaman  of  a  stature  well-nigh  equalling 
his  own,  "how's  that  hand  getting  on?"' 

The  man  stood  up  and  met  his  captain's  eyes  with- 


2i6  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

out  embarrassment;  just,  in  fact,  as  one  citizen  re- 
gards another. 

"Nicely,  thank  you,  sir,"  he  replied. 

"Hit  your  man  in  a  softer  place  next  time,"  said 
the  captain,  and  the  seaman  laughed,  nursing  his 
bandaged  hand. 

"I  will,  surely,"  he  said.  A  chuckle  ran  round 
the  sick  bay.  I  had  the  sensation  of  a  stranger  left 
trying  to  fathom  a  family  joke. 

"Want  to  talk  to  'em?"  asked  the  captain  a  min- 
ute later,  as  we  stopped  to  watch  a  veteran  super- 
intending the  splicing  of  a  five-inch  wire  by  two  ordi- 
nary seamen.  "Here,  B ,"  he  called  one  of  the 

youngsters,  again  by  name.  The  boy  dropped  his 
marling-spike  and  responded  smartly.  "Where  were 
you  raised?"  asked  the  captain. 

"Kentucky,  sir,"  came  the  reply  in  the  soft  South- 
ern drawl.  The  lad  stood  before  us  without  a  trace 
of  sheepishness  or  apparently  aware  of  any  distinc- 
tion in  being  thus  singled  out  by  his  captain  by  name 
from  amongst  a  thousand  other  men.  The  captain 
nodded.  "Trade?"  "Farm-hand,  sir." 

It  was  my  turn,  and  I  asked  him  the  question  no 
sailor  has  ever  been  able  to  answer.  "Why  did  you 
come  to  sea?"  He  grinned,  showing  two  rows  of 
perfect  teeth.  "Him,"  he  said,  and  jerked  his  head 
over  his  shoulder  at  the  other  ordinary  seaman  winc- 
ing beneath  the  whispered  exhortations  of  his  in- 
structor. "Him  an'  me  .  .  ."  adding,  "He's  my 
chum.  .  .  ."  Strong  men  have  tried  to  write  books 


THE  NTH  BATTLE  SQUADRON     217 

on  all  that  was  contained  in  these  two  sentences; 
most  have  died  with  the  task  unfinished 

We  had  concluded  lunch — a  meal  that  commenced 
with  iced  grape-fruit  (grape-fruit  in  Ultima  Thule, 
harkee!) — when  the  captain  beckoned  me  to  accom- 
pany him  on  another  tour.  It  was  of  a  more  official 
nature  this  time,  and  included  a  routine  inspection 
of  the  storerooms  and  magazines,  and  I  joined  the 
little  group  of  officers  who  hurried  in  the  wake  of 
that  tall,  striding  figure  with  gold  lace  round  the 
peak  of  his  cap,  who  knew  his  ship  as  I  know  the 
inside  of  my  pocket.  We  were  a  band  of  strenuous 
adventurers  in  search  of  the  unfindable.  Never  did 
red-shirted  miners  ply  pick  and  shovel  in  the  first 
days  of  the  Klondyke  rush  as  that  captain  laboured 
through  the  long  afternoon  in  search  of  Dust.  Up 
and  down  the  shafts  leading  to  speckless  storerooms, 
hand  over  hand  by  burnished  steel  rungs  into  the 
uttermost  bowels  of  the  ship  we  went;  and  as  we 
passed,  the  captain's  hand  was  for  ever  going  out  to 
run  along  a  transverse  frame  or  search  the  interior 
of  a  cofferdam  in  the  same  fruitless  quest.  Perspira- 
tion ran  down  our  faces,  but  the  break-neck  pace 
never  slackened.  "Light!"  barked  the  captain,  and 
the  breathless  first  lieutenant  obediently  flashed  an 
electric  torch  into  some  crannyhole.  .  .  .  The  hunt 
checked  while  the  captain  craned  and  peered,  and 
then  moved  on.  The  first  lieutenant's  sigh  of  relief 
was  always  audible  above  the  ring  of  our  footsteps. 
Once  as  the  procession  sped  along  some  labyrinth 


2i 8  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

among  the  shellrooms  the  captain's  finger  shot  out 
accusingly  to  indicate  a  junction-box  on  the  white 
enamelled  bulkhead  (an  infinitesimal  detail  in  the 
vast  complexity  of  a  battleship).  It  was  an  affair 
of  brass  secured  by  small  screws,  but  one  of  the 
screws  was  missing. 

"Spoke  about  that  last  week,"  rapped  out  the  cap- 
tain, already  a  dozen  yards  ahead.  The  first  lieu- 
tenant looked  at  the  junction-box  as  we  hurried  on, 
and  wiped  his  face. 

"Gee  1"  he  said.  Then  he  eyed  me  with  mingled 
desperation  and  pride. 

"Some  captain,"  he  said. 

I  dropped  out  of  the  running  about  four  o'clock 
because  we  were  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  gun- 
room (steerage,  they  called  it)  where  I  had  been 
invited  to  tea.  I  topk  with  me  an  uneasy  recollec- 
tion of  the  first  lieutenant's  reproachful  eyes  as  I 
sheered  out  of  the  procession,  but  it  was  speedily 
obliterated  by  the  interest  and  charm  of  the  ensuing 
hour.  The  American  midshipman  is  the  senior  of 
his  British  "opposite  number"  by  perhaps  a  couple 
of  years — but  there  the  difference  begins  and  ends. 
The  half-shy  warmth  of  my  welcome;  the  rather  op- 
pressive decorum  of  the  assembly  as  we  took  our 
places  round  the  tea-table,  were  not  otherwise  than 
it  would  have  been  in  a  British  gunroom  under  simi- 
lar conditions ;  the  quick  thaw  that  synchronised  with 
the  rapid  disappearance  of  buttered  toast  and  jam 


THE  NTH  BATTLE  SQUADRON     219 

was  Youth  asserting  itself  over  International  Cour- 
tesies. 

The  meal  (they  explained  that  they  had  picked  up 
the  habit  of  useven-bell  tea"  from  us,  and  the  lesson 
had  not  been  ill-learned)  was  nearing  its  close  when 
a  sudden  shout  of  laughter  obliterated  the  hum  of 
chaff  and  conversation.  Every  eye  turned  on  a  mid- 
shipman at  the  end  of  the  table,  whose  face  was 
slowly  turning  carmine  to  the  roots  of  his  curly  hair. 
The  President  extended  his  closed  fist,  thumb  point- 
ing downwards.  One  after  another  the  remainder 
followed  suit  until  every  member  sat  thus  with  the 
exception  of  the  blushing  victim.  He  looked  the 
length  of  the  long  table  twice,  gathered  his  cup  and 
plate  together,  and  without  further  ado  vanished  be- 
neath the  table  to  the  accompaniment  of  unbridled 
mirth. 

If  nothing  else  had  been  needed  to  emphasise  the 
fact,  I  realised  in  that  moment  that  I  was  in  a  gun- 
room of  the  Eternal  Navy. 

There  was  no  question  of  "showing  off"  before  a 
stranger — indeed  they  had  forgotten  my  existence; 
it  was  not  even  ragging.  It  was  just  that  I  had  ac- 
cidentally witnessed  the  workings  of  some  great  Law, 
immutable  and  inexplicable  as  Fate,  in  full  swing 
about  my  uncomprehending  head. 

The  meal  progressed  as  if  nothing  had  occurred 
to  break  its  serenity.  I  pleaded  for  light. 

"It's  just  our  mail,  you  see,"  explained  the  Presi- 
dent. "Something  has  happened  to  our  mails.  All 


220  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

the  rest  of  the  ships  get  theirs  regularly  and  ours 
hasn't  fetched  up  once  since  we've  been  here." 

"It's  the  fault  of  the  ship's  name,"  chipped  in 
another  (the  ship  bore  the  name  of  a  great  Ameri- 
can State)  ;  ud'rectly  the  bags  reach  Liverpool,  some- 
one looks  at  the  labels  an'  says,  'Here,  ain't  that 
somewhere  in  America  ?'  an'  back  they  go.  They've 
been  goin'  backwards  an'  forwards  for  months." 
"With  Fritz  takin'  pot-shots  at  them  as  they  come 
and  go,"  added  a  voice. 

Muffled  requests  for  reinforcements  of  buttered 
toast  drifted  up  from  underneath  the  table.  "Well?" 
I  queried,  still  hopelessly  in  the  dark.  "Oh,  well, 
you  see,  anyone  who  mentions  the  word  'mail'  at 
meals  just  has  to  quit  an'  go  underneath  the  table; 
we've  made  it  a  rule." 

A  British  midshipman  who  draws  a  dirk  in  the 
gunroom  stands  a  round  of  port  after  dinner.  To 
each  navy  its  own  etiquette — and  penalties. 

It  was  when  we  had  lit  our  pipes  (the  exile  had 
been  suffered  to  return  to  our  midst)  and  sprawled 
in  comfort,  elbows  on  table,  that  the  real  inner  mean- 
ing of  this  great  Alliance  dawned  fully  upon  me. 
Together  we  refought  Jutland  as  it  has  been  re- 
fought  in  scores  and  scores  of  gunrooms  amid  to- 
bacco smoke  and  the  shifting  of  spoons  and  matches 
across  a  tablecloth;  after  that,  it  was  baseball  in- 
stead of  rugger;  Annapolis  instead  of  Dartmouth 
training  college;  but  it  all  amounted  to  a  common 


THE  NTH  BATTLE  SQUADRON     221 

ideal,  voiced,  not  by  politicians  or  diplomats,  but 
by  a  nation's  youth  in  common  speech  with  ours. 

I  visited  the  compact  double  cabins — only  they 
called  them  staterooms — each  with  its  intimate  links 
with  home  suggested  by  the  backs  of  familiar  books 
on  a  shelf  and  photographs  pinned  to  the  heads  of 
bunks.  In  fancy  I  made  a  dozen  obeisances  to  the 
smiling  American  girlhood  that  has  good  cause  to 
be  proud  of  its  knights:  and  so  back  to  the  gunroom, 
where  one  of  the  gay  company  had  just  sat  down 
to  the  piano. 

We  perched  round  on  the  table  and  the  backs  of 
chairs,  and  sang.  They  were  the  latest  patriotic 
songs  from  the  United  States,  tuneful,  emotional 
jingles  whereby  every  nation  going  to  the  wars 
shamelessly  strives  to  voice  its  inner  feelings.  And 
when  the  player's  repertoire  was  ended  we  started 
afresh;  while  the  more  energetic  fox-trotted  grace- 
fully to  and  fro  across  the  narrow  deck  space. 

Tune  and  words  have  since  escaped  me;  but  the 
refrain  of  the  last  song  lingers  still  by  reason  of  its 
significance  in  these  sombre  days.  "We're  coming 
over,  we're  coming  over!"  roared  the  young  voices; 
and  I  stole  a  glance  at  the  lean  faces,  at  the  laugh- 
ing, confident  eyes  all  about  me — "AND  WE  WON'T 

COME  BACK  TILL  IT'S  OVER,  OVER  THERE  1" 

I  came  nearer  to  feeling  sorry  for  the  Hun  than 
I  had  since  the  war  started. 


CHAPTER  XII 
MYSTERY 


DUSK  and  a  fine  driving  rain  were  sweeping  up 
harbour  from  the  sea.  The  shadows  that  had 
gathered  in  the  folds  of  the  hills  ashore  swiftly 
overflowed  and  settled  down  over  the  muddy  town 
and  wharves,  engulfing  the  straggling  dockyard.  As 
night  fell,  lights  glimmered  here  and  there  on  the 
hill-side  and  were  obliterated;  across  the  swift-run- 
ning ebb-tide  the  irritable  chatter  of  pneuniatic  riv- 
eters drifted  in  gusts;  and  in  the  direction  from 
which  the  sound  came  a  few  shaded  arc-lights  shone 
upon  the  half-discerned  ribs  of  craft  on  the  building 
slips. 

Something  beside  the  night  was  coming  in  from 
the  sea :  a  ship  with  a  heavy  list,  labouring  in  with 
a  tug  on  either  side  of  her  and  another  fretting  at 
the  end  of  the  tow.  They  passed,  a  mere  smear  of 
uncertain  outlines,  through  the  outer  defences,  and 
a  couple  of  long  black  shadows  that  were  the  es- 
corting destroyers  wheeled  again  to  seaward  and 
were  blotted  from  view. 

222 


MYSTERY  223 

A  number  of  small  craft  were  afloat  in  the  lower 
reaches  of  the  harbour.  A  hospital  launch,  with  the 
Geneva  cross  visible  through  the  dusk  against  her 
white  upperworks,  lay  rolling  gently  by  the  berth 
towards  which  the  tow  was  heading.  Another  steam 
launch  circled  impatiently  round,  and  in  her  stern- 
sheets  a  group  of  armed  marines  stood  watching  the 
approaching  vessels  above  the  upturned  collars  of 
their  greatcoats.  The  steaming-light  of  the  hospital 
boat  glimmered  momentarily  on  the  barrels  of  their 
rifles. 

"'Ullo?"  said  a  sick-berth  attendant  in  the  hos- 
pital boat,  "guard  o'  marines — eh?" 

The  sternsheets-man  nodded  towards  the  ap- 
proaching tow-lights.  "Prisoners,"  he  said  senten- 
tiously,  and  was  silent,  watching  the  shadowy  ship 
looming  towards  them  out  of  the  murk.  The  tug 
on  the  tow  slipped  the  hawser  with  a  blast  on  her 
syren  and  turned  shoreward;  the  splash  of  an  an- 
chor let  go  and  the  rattle  of  cable  followed.  The 
coxswain  of  the  hospital  boat,  as  if  awaiting  a  sig- 
nal, put  out  his  hand  toward  the  telegraph  and  rang 
slow  speed  ahead.  A  light  appeared  at  the  gangway 
of  the  shadowy  ship. 

One  of  the  tugs  alongside  had  cast  off  and  was 
backing  astern  into  the  darkness :  as  she  cleared  the 
ship's  side  a  steam-boat,  with  her  bow  lights  gleam- 
ing through  the  drizzle  like  red  and  green  jewels, 
crossed  the  bows,  swept  round  in  a  graceful  circle, 
and  ran  alongside.  A  rope  ladder  dropped  from 


224  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

the  upper  deck  of  the  ship,  and  a  figure  in  oil-skins, 
who  had  been  standing  in  the  stern-sheets  of  the 
steam-boat,  caught  it  as  it  swayed. 

"Lay  off,"  he  said  curtly  to  the  coxswain,  and 
climbed  inboard. 

A  seaman  stood  at  the  gangway  holding  a  lantern 
above  his  head,  and  as  the  newcomer  stepped  in- 
board another  figure  came  forward  into  the  light  to 
greet  him.  He  was  a  loose-limbed,  youngish  man, 
wearing  the  cap  and  monkey  jacket  of  a  commander. 
Leather  sea-boots  reached  to  his  knees,  and  he 
dragged  his  feet  as  he  walked,  as  if  oppressed  with 
a  great  weariness.  He  peered  at  the  new-comer 
through  the  drizzle  for  an  instant,  and  then  saluted. 
A  grave  smile  flitted  across  his  face,  lit  for  a  mo- 
ment by  the  lantern-light. 

"Congratulate  you!"  said  the  visitor  in  quick  in- 
cisive tones.  "Are  you  all  right — wounded?" 

"No,  sir,  not  a  scratch.  Ship's  badly  knocked 
about,  but  she'll  float.  Dynamo's  gone,  and  we've 
only  got  lanterns,  but  you  can  see  ... "  He  nodded 
forward. 

The  visitor  came  a  pace  or  two  inboard  and  stood 
looking  about  the  upper-deck  in  silence.  Figures 
were  moving  to  and  fro  with  lanterns,  and  the  un- 
certain light  flickered  on  splintered  planking  and 
upper-works  shattered  and  distorted  by  shell-fire. 
The  air  was  pungent  with  the  sour  odour  of  wet 
charred  woodwork. 

"Yes  ..."  said  the  new-comer,  in  a  low  voice, 


MYSTERY  225 

as  if  speaking  to  himself.  ''Yes  .  .  .."  He  stared 
at  the  riven  funnel  overhead  and  thence  to  the  rents 
in  the  bulwarks.  " Where  are  your  dead?" 

"Aft,  sir."  The  Commander  led  the  way  past 
piles  of  crumpled  wreckage,  down  a  ladder,  and 
across  an  open  space.  A  sentry  leaning  on  his  rifle 
at  a  doorway  jerked  to  attention.  "Here  are  the 
dead,  sir,"  said  the  Commander.  He  stepped 
through  the  door  and  indicated  in  the  flickering  lan- 
tern-light a  row  of  motionless  figures  resting  be- 
neath a  White  Ensign. 

The  other  halted  and  stood  in  silent  contempla- 
tion of  the  shrouded  forms  outlined  dimly  amongst 
the  shadows.  His  chin  had  sunk  on  his  breast,  and 
for  a  minute  he  remained  thus,  motionless.  Then 
slowly  he  turned  away. 

"The  men  were  absolutely  splendid,  sir,"  said 
the  Commander,  as  he  led  the  way  forward  again. 
"I — I  don't  know  how  to  express  what  I  feel  about 
them.  This  was  out  and  away  the  worst  show  we've 
had,  and  they  were" — the  speaker  broke  off  and 
seemed  to  swallow  something — "magnificent."  The 
inadequacy  of  the  English  language  seemed  to  em- 
barrass him.  He  made  a  little  gesture:  "Surgeon 
was  killed,  an'  I  did  what  I  could,  but  I'm  afraid  I 
hurt  some  of  them  shockingly.  They  never  winced. 
It's  so  hard  to  find  words " 

"There  are  no  words,"  said  the  other,  "that  meet 
the  case."  He  paused  to  measure  a  shell-hole  in 
the  engine-room  casing;  the  clang  of  metal  on  metal 


226  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

came  up  from  the  silent  depths  of  the  ship.  "What 
about  your  prisoners  ?" 

"The  captain's  in  my  harbour  cabin — what's  left 
of  it.  Pretty  sulky  customer.  The  rest  are  forward 
under  guard.  They're  more  communicative  than  the 
last  lot  and  jolly  glad  to  get  out  of  submarines  for 
the  rest  of  the  war." 

A  gust  of  laughter  floated  aft  from  the  forecastle 
and  the  sound  of  men's  voices  singing.  A  door 
opened  somewhere,  and  the  words  of  the  song  came 
plain  through  the  night: 

"When  you  come  to  the  end  of  a  perfect  day!" 

The  Commander  smiled  as  a  father  smiles  on  the 
threshold  of  his  children's  nursery.  "That's  the 
wounded,  sir.  First  lieutenant's  got  the  rest  for- 
ward, working  cables."  A  figure  came  towards  them 
out  of  the  darkness  with  bandages  glimmering  white 
about  his  head.  He  was  humming  the  refrain  of 
the  forecastle  song,  and  broke  off  abruptly  as  he 
recognised  the  two  figures  by  the  casing. 

"The  hospital  boat  is  coming  alongside  now,"  said 
the  stranger.  "I'd  like  to  speak  to  the  wounded  be- 
fore they  leave  the  ship." 

"Aye,  aye,  sir."  The  other  led  the  way  forward, 
and  as  they  stepped  into  the  dimly-lighted  forecastle 
the  singing  wavered  and  died  away  to  a  sudden  si- 
lence. The  narrow  space  was  partly  blocked  by 
hammocks  slung  from  the  beams  overhead,  and  il- 
lumined by  a  few  swinging  lanterns  and  candles  gut- 


MYSTERY  227 

taring  on  the  broken  mess  tables.  Evidences  of  the 
ordeal  the  ship  had  undergone  were  apparent  on  all 
sides  in  blackened  paint-work  and  ragged  shell-holes 
in  the  deck  and  ship's  side.  Men  sat  about  smoking 
and  nursing  bandaged  limbs,  or  lay  motionless  with 
their  eyes  full  of  suffering  turned  towards  the  new- 
comers ;  a  few  rose  unsteadily  to  their  feet,  and  the 
stranger  motioned  them  with  a  gesture  to  sit  down 
again. 

"If  England  knew,"  he  said,  in  his  clear,  deliber- 
ate tones,  "England  could  tell  you  men  what  she 
thinks  of  you.  Unfortunately,  I  am  the  only  person 
at  present  that  knows" — he  paused  and  surveyed 
in  the  uncertain  light,  which,  nevertheless,  served  to 
illumine  the  consciousness  of  victory  in  each  drawn 
face.  "And  I'm — proud  of  you."  They  cheered 
the  spare,  upright  figure  as  he  stood  amid  the  wreck- 
age and  pools  of  water  as  only  men  can  cheer  who 
have  fought  a  good  fight  to  a  clean  finish;  as  the 
last  gust  died  away  feet  shuffled  on  the  iron  plating 
behind  the  speaker,  and  the  stretcher-bearers  en- 
tered. From  farther  aft  along  the  upper  deck  came 
a  hoarse  word  of  command,  and  the  clatter  of  steel 
as  the  unseen  prisoners'  escort  fixed  bayonets.  The 
visitor  turned  to  the  Commander  and  walked  slowly 
aft. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "I'll  have  your  report." 

Half  an  hour  later  the  visitor  departed.  At  the 
gangway  he  paused.  "I'll  send  my  barge  back  for 


228  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

you,"  he  said.  "You'll  want  to  get  ashore.  I  sent 
to  tell  your  wife  you  were  coming  in."  He  smiled 
his  dour  smile.  "When  did  you  get  your  last  sleep  ?" 
The  younger  man  thought  gravely  for  a  moment. 
"I  don't  remember,  sir.  What's  to-day?  .  .  . 
Thursday?"  He  smiled.  "Monday,  sir,  I  think  it 
was.  .  .  .  Thanks  awfully  for  the  barge,  sir.  I'll 
go  ashore  when  I've  seen  the  ship  all  right  for  the 
night." 

II 

The  tiny  cottage  parlour  was  flooded  with  sun- 
shine :  through  the  open  window  the  throaty  bubbling 
song  of  a  thrush  poured  like  a  cascade  from  among 
the  blossoms  of  an  apple-tree  that  came  near  to 
thrusting  inquisitive  lower  branches  into  the  room. 
The  Commander  sat  at  the  breakfast-table  chipping 
the  top  off  an  egg;  opposite  him  stood  a  girl,  her 
brows  knitted  in  the  preoccupation  of  coffee-making. 
At  his  left  hand,  perched  in  a  high  chair,  sat  a  smaller 
edition  of  himself  with  a  bib  under  his  chin,  watch- 
ing the  decapitation  of  the  egg  with  intent  solemnity. 

"What  did  the  White  Queen  say?"  asked  the 
Commander. 

"Off  wiv  his  'ead,"  came  the  reply  promptly,  in 
rich  tones  of  anticipation. 

'  'Head,'  darling,"  protested  the  coffee-maker 
without  raising  her  eyes  from  her  task. 

"Never    mind,    John    Willie,"    said   his    father. 


MYSTERY  229 

"Let's  cut  the  cackle  and  get  to  the  'osses."  He  ex- 
tended the  top  of  the  brown  egg  to  his  son  and  heir, 
who  gravely  accepted  it,  and  delved  into  its  white 
and  gold  with  an  unwieldy  egg-spoon. 

"Well?"  said  his  father. 

"Fank  you,"  said  John  Willie  absent-mindedly. 
He  finished  the  egg's  head  and  passed  on  to  the  more 
serious  business  of  porridge  in  a  blue-and-white  bowl. 
"Can  I  go  to  see  daddy's  ship  'smorning?"  he  quer- 
ied presently.  A  tiny  shadow  passed  across  his 
mother's  eyes  and  was  gone  again.  For  nearly  a 
week  she  had  been  able  to  forget  that  ship. 

She  looked  at  her  first-born  across  the  table  and 
smiled.  "What  d'you  want  to  see?"  she  asked. 

"Blug,"  said  John  Willie  calmly. 

His  father  raised  his  eyebrows.  "The  deuce  you 
do.  How  d'you  know  there's  blood  there?" 

"Cook  told  Nannie,"  said  the  child.  "She  said 
ve  scuppers  must  have  been  full  wiv  it.  What's 
scuppers?" 

"Eat  your  porridge,"  retorted  his  father.  "Once 
upon  a  time  there  was  a  little  boy  who  played  with 
his  breakfast " 

"I'll  speak  to  cook,"  said  the  mother  in  a  low 
voice. 

"An'  cook  said " 

"Never  mind  what  cook  said.  Just  you  listen  to 
my  story.  The  little  boy's  mummie  took  him  to 
see  the  White  Queen — know  what  she  said?" 

"Off  wiv " 


230  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

A  shadow  darkened  the  sunlight  and  the  head  and 
shoulders  of  the  post-girl  passed  the  open  window. 

"Hil  Here  you  are,  Janet!"  shouted  the  Com- 
mander. He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  thrusting  a 
long  arm  out  of  the  window,  and  took  the  orange- 
hued  envelope  from  the  girl's  hand.  Slowly  and 
deliberately  he  selected  a  knife  and  slit  the  envelope ; 
there  was  silence  in  the  little  room,  and  the  clock  on 
the  mantelpiece  punctuated  it  with  even,  unhurried 
ticks.  "No  answer,"  he  called  over  his  shoulder, 
refolded  the  message  and  put  it  in  his  pocket;  then 
he  held  out  his  cup  to  be  replenished. 

His  wife  filled  the  cup  and  looked  at  him  across 
the  flowers  and  china.  But  her  husband  had  slipped 
into  one  of  his  musing  silences  and  sat  with  knitted 
brows,  drumming  his  fingers  on  the  white  cloth.  She 
knew  only  too  well  those  imperturbable  abstractions, 
and  the  futility  of  asking  questions.  She  was  one 
of  those  women  who  have  learned  to  wait  as  men 
rarely  learn  any  lesson. 

The  meal  finished  and  the  Commander  rose,  fill- 
ing a  pipe.  "Lemme  strike  your  match,"  said  his 
son. 

"He'll  burn  his  fingers,"  said  his  mother. 

"Yes,"  said  the  man.  "That's  the  only  way  he'll 
ever  learn  to  respect  matches."  He  held  out  the 
box:  the  match  was  duly  struck  and  the  pipe  lit  with- 
out catastrophe.  When  the  pipe  was  drawing  prop- 
erly he  turned  and  watched  his  wife's  profile  as  she 


MYSTERY  231 

moved  about  the  homely  disorder  of  the  breakfast- 
table.  His  eyes  were  full  of  a  great  tenderness. 

"Like  to  run  up  to  town  to-morrow?"  he  said 
casually. 

She  turned  swiftly.  "London!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Oh,  Bill!  Rather  extravagant,  isn't  it?" 

"Um.  .  .  .  No.  I  don't  think  so.  I've  got  to 
go — on  duty.  You'd  better  come  too.  It's  only  for 
the  day.  We  might  lunch  somewhere  where  there's 
a  band  .  .  .  buy  a  hat,  p'r'aps.  ..." 

"Me  too !"  said  John  Willie. 

"Once  upon  a  time,"  said  his  father,  "I  was  in  a 
ship  where  there  was  a  man  who  said  'Me  too'  every 
time  any  one  ordered  a  drink." 

"Was  he  a  firsty  man?" 

"Very.  There  were  twenty-three  people  in  the 
mess,  consequently  he  drank  twenty-three  times 
more  than  he  ought  to." 

"Ven  what  happened?" 

"He  was  attacked  by  pink  rats  and  blue  spiders 
and  piebald  snakes." 

"Did  vey  bite  him?" 

"Something  frightful.  He  never  said  'Me  too* 
again." 

The  girl  turned  from  contemplation  of  the  sunlit 
garden,  the  tip  of  her  slim  forefinger  between  her 
teeth  as  was  her  habit  when  deep  in  thought. 

"Bill!  Don't  be  awful.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  that 
grey  dress  looks  nice  enough  .  .  .  ?  We  needn't 
go  anywhere  really  smart,  need  we  ...  ?" 


THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

The  man  put  his  pipe  down  on  the  mantelpiece, 
and  crossing  the  little  room  took  her  face  between 
his  hard  hands.  Three  times  he  kissed  her:  once 
on  the  forehead,  once  on  the  mouth,  and  once  on 
the  tip  of  her  pretty  nose.  "Anything's  good 
enough,1'  he  said,  and  his  voice  vibrated  on  a  note 
she  rarely  heard.  Then  abruptly  he  released  her 
and  turned  to  his  son. 

"Now  then,  John  Willie,  come  on  outside!  I'm 
going  to  bowl  to  you,  and  if  you  don't  keep  a  straight 
bat  you  shall  never  come  on  board  daddy's  ship 
again." 


Ill 

The  taxi  jolted  up  the  cobbled  gradient  that  led 
out  of  the  gloom  of  the  great  terminus,  and  slipped 
into  the  traffic  that  flowed  east  and  west  along  the 
sunlit  thoroughfare. 

"Oh,  look  at  it  all,"  said  the  Commander's  wife. 
"What  fun,  what  fun!  Why  does  everybody  look 
as  if  they  were  having  a  holiday  too  ?  Look  at  the 
rosettes  on  the  horses'  blinkers  .  .  .  and  the  flow- 
ers— Bill,  look  at  the  flowers  ..."  she  sighed  lux- 
uriously. "Oh,  how  nice  all  these  commonplace 
things  are !"  Her  hand  stole  inside  her  husband's. 
"Can  they  see  us,  d'you  think  .  .  .?" 

"They  never  used  to,"  replied  the  man.  He 
watched  her  animated  smiling  face  as  she  glanced 


MYSTERY  233 

delightedly  about  her  at  the  familiar  shops  and 
women's  frocks  and  all  the  gay  tide  of  London  set- 
ting to  and  fro.  Her  eyes  softened. 

"It's  like  old  times,  isn't  it?"  she  said.  "The  pair 
of  us  philandering  in  a  taxi.  .  .  .  And  the  tup- 
pences ticking  up.  ...  Are  we  really  going  to  buy 
a  hat?" 

"Not  yet."  He  glanced  at  his  wrist  watch.  "No 
time  now,  I've  got  an  appointment  at  twelve." 

She  gave  his  hand  a  little  squeeze.  "Tell  me 
where  we're  going." 

"I  told  you.    My  outfitter." 

"I  know:  but  after  that?" 

"Then  I've  got  to — to  pay  a  call.  You'll  have 
to  wait.  Then " 

"Who  are  you  going  to  call  on?" 

"A  man." 

"Any  one  I  know?" 

"Well" — her  husband  threw  back  his  head  and 
chuckled  delightedly — "not  to  speak  to." 

She  shook  him  by  the  sleeve.  "Don't  be  silly  and 
mysterious.  Is  he  a  naval  officer?" 

"Er,  yes." 

;"At  the  Admiralty?" 

"Down  in  that  direction."  The  cab  slowed  and 
pulled  up.  "Wait,"  he  said,  and  jumping  out  van- 
ished between  the  swinging  glass  doors  of  the  out- 
fitter. A  couple  of  minutes  later  he  returned,  carry- 
ing a  sword  and  belt,  resplendent  in  gilt  and  tassel. 


234  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

He  stopped  on  the  kerb,  gave  a  low-voiced  direction 
to  the  driver,  and  resumed  his  seat  beside  her. 

"You  haven't  bought  another  sword!"  she  gasped. 
"You've  got  one  already." 

"Olo-piecee — too  shabby.  I've  only  borrowed 
this  for  the  forenoon.  You  have  to  wear  a  sword 
to  pay  certain  duty  calls." 

Her  ignorance  of  Service  matters  was  profound, 
and  he  had  always  been  content  that  it  should  be  so. 
She  gave  a  little  sigh,  like  a  child  abandoning  a 
puzzle.  The  car  turned  into  the  Mall,  and  the  Com- 
mander leaned  back  in  his  seat  adjusting  the  belt 
about  his  lean  middle.  The  girl  glanced  over  her 
shoulder. 

"Why,"  she  exclaimed,  "he's  going  away  from  the 
Admiralty!  Tell  him,  Bill,  he's  going  wrong " 

"No,  he  isn't,"  said  the  man.  He  glanced  again 
at  his  watch.  "Pam,"  he  said,  and  for  the  second 
time  in  her  life  she  thought  she  detected  a  note  of 
nervousness  in  his  voice — "Pam,  you'll  have  to  sit 
in  the  taxi  and  wait.  I  shall  only  be  about  twenty 
minutes " 

"Twenty  minutes!"   she  echoed  in  dismay,   and 

glanced  at  the  taximeter.    "But  can't  I ?"  Then 

the  truth  suddenly  dawned  upon  her.  The  broad 
facade  of  Buckingham  Palace  loomed  up  before 
them  and  the  car  slowed. 

"Oh!"  she  gasped.  "You  might  have  told  me. 
-.  .  .  And  one  of  your  cuffs  is  frayed.  .  .  .  That 


MYSTERY  235 

policeman  is  saluting  you,  Bill!  Oh,  my  dear,  my 
dear,  I  think  I  want  to  cry.  .  .  ." 

"You  mustn't  cry  here,"  said  her  husband  fiercely. 
They  had  passed  into  the  vast  courtyard  and  had  a 
glimpse  of  scarlet-coated  footmen  behind  the  glass 
panels  of  a  door.  The  Commander's  wife  gulped. 
"No,"  she  said,  "of  course  not.  But  I  wish  I  could 
come  with  you."  He  gave  her  hand  a  quick  squeeze 
and  jumped  out :  as  he  turned  to  close  the  door  their 
eyes  met. 

"Wait,"  he  said  and  passed  from  her  ken. 

Outside  the  railings,  drawn  up  in  an  inconspicuous 
spot  by  the  curb,  oblivious  to  the  inexorable  ticking 
of  the  tuppences,  she  waited.  Nearly  half  an  hour 
had  elapsed  before  she  saw  him  coming  towards  her, 
walking  very  quickly,  holding  his  head  high,  rather 
pale  under  his  sunburn.  He  gave  the  driver  direc- 
tions and  jumped  in  beside  her.  She  took  a  deep 
breath. 

"Oh,  my  dear — what? 

Her  husband  made  no  reply,  but  laid  a  little 
morocco  leather  case  on  her  trembling  knees.  For 
a  moment  she  fumbled  at  it  blindly,  her  head  bent 
low.  Then  she  turned  to  him,  smiling  tremulously 
through  a  mist  of  tears,  the  little  bronze  Symbol 
lying  in  the  palm  of  her  hand. 

"My  Man!"  she  whispered.    "My  Man!" 


"GATE,  THERE!    GATE!" 


CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  FLEET 

"Through  all  the  monotony  of  its  unending  vigil,  the  Spirit 
of  the  Fleet  remains  unchanged." — Daily  Paper. 

\  FLOTILLA  of  mine-sweeping  sloops  entered 
/JL  harbour  with  the  last  of  the  light  and  secured 
to  their  buoys;  they  were  weary  sea-battered  little 
ships,  and  for  a  while  they  remained  as  silent  as  a 
stable-full  of  costermongers'  donkeys  at  the  close  of 
a  hard  day's  work.  The  ebb  tide  strengthened  and 
they  swung  to  their  moorings  in  an  invisible  "rip" 
that  swept  round  a  curve  of  the  adjoining  island. 
One  by  one  the  cables  tautened  and  the  line  straight- 
ened. 

"That's  better,"  said  one.  "Now  we  can  talk 
comfortably." 

"Talk!"  echoed  her  neighbour.  "Who  wants  to 
236 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  FLEET       237 

talk?  I  want  to  rest.  Did  you  see  that  signal  just 
now  from  the  S.O.M.S.?"  (Senior  Officer  of  Mine- 
sweepers) .  "We  slip  at  dawn,  my  hearties,  to  go 
over  the  ground  again — the  same  old  ground  in  the 
dawn — ugh!"  Her  tone  was  jerky  and  irritable. 
"I  hate  the  dawn." 

"Hullo,  hullo!"  observed  a  Subdivisional  Leader. 
"Nerves  a  bit— eh?" 

"Nerves  be  sugared!  That  affair  this  afternoon 
was  nothing.  No,  I  don't  care  about  the  dawn,  that's 
all.  Diving  seafowl  break  the  surface  just  under 
my  bows  and  give  one  a  turn  in  a  bad  light." 

The  sloop  that  didn't  want  to  talk  had  hove  a 
German  mine  up  in  her  sweep  that  morning,  and 
brought  it  under  her  counter  before  anyone  noticed 
it  was  there.  She  lay  rolling  in  the  swell  with  the 
horns  missing  impact  by  inches;  to  veer  the  wire 
would  have  probably  caused  the  detonation,  and  the 
lieutenant  in  command  ordered  his  ship's  company 
to  abandon  ship,  crawled  over  the  stern  with  a  queer 
grim  smile  on  his  face  and  removed  the  primer  with 
a  spanner.  It  was  an  entirely  unpleasant  quarter 
of  an  hour,  and  he  was  at  that  moment  giving  a  lurid 
summary  of  his  sensations  at  the  time  to  an  assembly 
of  three  brother  captains  in  the  tiny  wardroom  of 
the  next  ship. 

"When  I  was  working  on  the  east  coast — "  began 
another  sloop. 

"Ah!"  interrupted  the  end  ship  of  the  line,  "that 
was  clearing  the  trade  routes,  I  suppose?  Of  course 


238  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

we  clear  the  fleet  routes — the  path  of  the  battle 
squadrons!"  The  east  coast  sweeper  was  a  new  ar- 
rival. 

"Very  useful,  no  doubt.  On  the  other  hand,  we 
feed  England.  If  the  trade  routes  had  got  foul, 
England  would  have  starved.  They've  trained 
trawlers  to  do  the  work  now,  but  when  I  was  on  that 

"East  coast?"  chipped  in  another  recent  addition 
to  the  flotilla.  "Is  there  a  war  there  too?  I  come 
from  the  Clyde,  myself.'* 

The  Tyne-built  sloop  snorted.  "I've  seen  our 
East  Coast  Striking  Force  go  out  past  us  while  we 
were  at  work  and  be  back  again  with  wounded  and 
prisoners  within  half  a  dozen  hours  of  leaving  har- 
bour. War,  indeed!  It's  on  our  doorstep." 

"That's  because  you  haven't  got  a  fleet  to  keep  it 
away  from  your  doorstep.  Out  fighting  ships  have 
to  steam  south  for  a  day  and  a  night  to  find  an 
enemy,  while  we  sweep  and  wait  and  sweep  again 
against  their  home-coming."  The  speaker  glanced 
at  her  neighbour  through  a  rust-streaked  hawse- 
pipe.  "  'Member  Jutland?  How  they  came  back 
that  evening  all  battle-stained ?" 

"And  didn't  forget  to  give  us  a  cheer  as  they 
passed!"  The  sloop  chuckled.  "I  had  an  artist 
fellow  on  board  the  other  day.  He  came  out  to  paint 
the  headlands  and  the  fleet  coming  back  from  a  sweep 
south.  He  was  very  sick." 

The  moon  swam  into  a  windy  sky  from  behind 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  FLEET       239 

the  blue-black  hills  encircling  them.  The  vast  an- 
chored fleet  that  had  dropped  into  obscurity  at  night- 
fall became  distinct  against  the  shimmer  of  the  wa- 
ter. The  wind  was  full  of  the  voices  of  ships  talk- 
ing among  themselves,  and  fragrant  with  salt  heather 
smells  from  hundreds  of  spray-drenched  islands. 
You  could  detect  the  deep  grumbling  tones  of  the 
battleships  in  the  air,  as  the  Romans  might  have 
heard  the  talk  that  floated  into  the  night  from  the 
gladiators'  barracks.  It  mingled  with  the  gossip  of 
of  the  light  cruisers,  whose  conversation  was  largely 
technical,  as  they  lay  floating  at  their  moorings  with 
steam  raised:  nervous,  high-spirited,  mettlesome 
things,  spoiling  for  a  fight.  Their  talk  concerned 
each  other's  boiler  tubes,  turning  circles,  thrust  bear- 
ings, and  gyro  compasses :  rather  dull  to  the  layman, 
but  interesting  to  the  destroyers  in  the  flotilla  an- 
chorage, who  were  their  cousins.  One  of  the  T.B.D. 
flotillas  was  unmooring,  and  through  a  waterway  be- 
tween the  islands  their  lights  winked  and  flickered 
as  they  swore  and  fumed  at  each  other,  manoeuvring 
in  the  narrow  waters. 

The  flotilla  leader  slipped  out  into  the  broader  ex- 
panse of  the  bay  and  slowed  down.  "Now  then," 
she  called,  "who  are  we  hanging  on  to  the  slack  for? 
L.I 9 — you  again?'* 

"No,"  said  19  intones  of  tense  exasperation,  "not 
this  time.  .  .  .  But  if  73  tries  to  cut  in  under  my 
stern  again  as  she  did  just  now,  she'll  get  a  kick  in 


240  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

the  ribs  one  of  these  days "  her  syren  hooted 

angrily.  "Gangway!  That  damned  drifter!'* 

Destroyers  are  as  short-tempered  as  athletes  be- 
fore a  "Sports."  They  are  always  at  short  notice, 
and  always  trained  to  a  hair,  which,  as  every  school- 
boy knows,  is  a  very  touchy  state.  "Don't  forget," 
said  the  leader,  "until  sunrise  the  challenge  and  reply 
is  "St.  George!  and  England!" 

She  rang  down  for  half  speed,  and  one  by  one 
the  long,  slim  forms  slipped  out  after  her  and  picked 
up  station  in  the  darkness  with  the  ease  and  sureness 
that  belied  all  their  abuse  of  each  other. 

The  patient  mine-sweepers  rocked  in  the  swell  as 
the  line  went  by.  They  were  modest,  hard-working 
little  ships  who  did  their  jobs  without  talking  about 
their  theories  and  the  complications  of  their  inter- 
iors. Sufficient  unto  each  day  was  the  labour  and 
calamity  thereof,  without  burdening  the  night  with 
conjecture  about  the  morrow. 

"Hope  you  old  plumbers  did  your  job  all  right 
this  afternoon!"  shouted  a  destroyer  as  they  passed. 
"My  word,  we're  a  trusting  lot  of  innocents !" 

The  sloops  nodded  and  dipped,  rather  pleased  in 
their  humble  way  at  being  taken  notice  of.  "You're 
all  right!"  they  chorused  back. 

The  destroyers  were  slipping  into  their  stride  and 
their  tempers  were  sweetening  like  a  long-distance 
runner  as  he  gets  his  second  wind.  "Who's  all 
right?"  hailed  the  last  boat  in  the  line. 

"We're  all  all  right!"  roared  the  flotilla.     They 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  FLEET       2411 

were  nearing  the  light  cruiser  lines,  and  the  light 
cruisers,  swung  to  a  turn  of  the  tide,  all  looked  the 
other  way. 

"Come  on,  all  you  fire-eaters !"  called  the  flotilla 
leader,  "ain't  you  coming  on  the  trail  with  us  to- 
night? We're  the  Y.M.C.A.  off  for  a  jaunt:  quite 
respectable,  my  dear  fellars,  'sure  you.  .  .  .  You 
know  all  about  our  respectability,  don't  you — 'smar- 
vellous!" 

"Won't  mother  let  you  come?"  sniggered  a  quiv- 
ering, palpitating  black  shadow  as  it  slipped  past, 
and  then  broke  into  ribald  song : 

"Hi!     For  the  crest  of  a  breaking  sea! 
Ho!    for  the  deep  sea  roll! 
Stanchions   down   and   tubes   trained  free—- 
Ain't you  comin'  along  wi'  we, 
Or  d'you  know  of  a  better  'ole?" 

Irritating  doggerel  to  anyone  whose  orders  are 
to  remain  at  their  moorings  at  three  hours'  notice. 
The  singer  broke  off  and  they  all  started  halloing: 

"Hi !  Gate,  there,  Gate !  The  sun'll  be  scorch- 
ing our  eyes  out  before  we're  through!" 

The  roar  of  their  fans  died  away  down  wind  and 
the  flotilla  passed  through  the  distant  gates  and  was 
swallowed  by  the  misty  moonlight  of  the  outer  sea. 

The  boom-marking  trawlers,  the  humblest  of  all 
units  of  His  Majesty's  Fleet,  reeled  and  staggered 
and  nodded  to  each  other  after  they  had  passed. 

"Yon  destroyers,"  said  one,  "they're  gey  witless 
bodies,  a'm  thinkin'." 


242  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

"Aye,"  said  a  companion  dourly,  "aye,  juist  that." 

They  settled  down  again  to  silence  and  the  heart- 
breaking monotony  of  their  toil.  A  quarter  of  an 
hour  elapsed  before  the  silence  of  the  boom  line  was 
broken  again;  then  the  youngest  of  the  trawlers 
spoke : 

"Eh  I"  he  said,  and  sighed  to  the  bellying  floats, 
"a'd  like  fine  to  be  a  destroyer." 

Then  silence  again. 

The  light  cruisers  in  the  meanwhile  were  fuming 
among  themselves :  even  members  of  the  same  fam- 
ily do  not  relish  gratuitous  insult.  "Funny  little  fel- 
lows !"  said  one  bitterly.  "But  there !  What  can 
you  expect  from  a  destroyer:  neither  fish,  flesh,  fowl, 
nor  a  good  red  herring.  I  took  a  couple  out  last 
month  for  a  blow  through ;  had  to  send  the  poor  lit- 
tle things  back  because  it  was  too  rough  for  them." 

"Poor  little  things !"  said  another  acidly.  "Their 
plating  is  thin,  isn't  it?  .  .  .  Well,  as  I  was  saying 
when  all  this  vulgar  interruption  happened,  my  chief 
rigged  a  Weston's  purchase  and  lifted  off  the  top  of 
my  L.P.  cylinder  .  .  ."  and  they  plunged  into 
their  private  affairs  again. 

The  destroyers  remaining  in  the  T.B.D.  anchorage 
felt  that  somehow  the  last  word  remained  with  the 
light  cruisers 

"Always  talkin'  obstetrics  .  .  ."  floated  disgusted- 
ly across  the  heave  and  uneasy  motion  of  the  moonlit 
harbour  from  the  flotilla  trot. 

"I  know.    Disgustin'  .  .  ." 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  FLEET       243 

After  which,  conversation  among  the  light  cruis- 
ers perceptibly  dwindled. 

From  out  of  the  wind-swept  spaces  of  the  North 
Sea  as  the  night  wore  on  came  a  murmur  of  voices : 
it  grew  nearer  and  deepened:  "Ho,  there!  Gate, 
gate!" 

Position  lights  winked  amongst  the  assembled 
fleet  as  a  squadron  of  battle  cruisers  loomed  up,  black 
as  doom,  in  the  entrance  of  the  bay.  One  by  one  in 
line  ahead  they  passed  to  their  anchorage  and  picked 
up  their  berths  with  a  thunderous  roar  of  cables. 

"Clear  hawse  I"  cried  the  battle  squadrons  from 
their  orderly  lines.  This  is  the  greeting  from  ships 
at  anchor  to  those  that  enter  harbour. 

"Clear  hawse  to  you,"  said  the  new-comers.  They 
were  on  a  visit  from  a  more  southerly  base  and  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  ceremonious  exchange  of  compli- 
ments between  them  and  the  battleships.  "Hope 
you'll  find  the  billets  to  your  liking,"  said  the  latter, 
"plenty  of  swinging  room  and  so  on.  Oilers  will  be 
alongside  at  daybreak,  but  in  the  meanwhile  if  there 
is  anything  you'd  like  .  .  .?" 

The  visitors  said  they  wanted  nothing,  and  were 
most  comfortable.  As  if  to  show  how  at  home  they 
were,  they  all  swung  in  different  directions  and 
sprawled  their  25,ooo-ton  bulks  abroad  on  the  dark 
face  of  the  waters. 

"Waal,  boys!"  drawled  a  voice  from  the  Ameri- 
can battle  squadron.  "What's  the  noos  from  down 
your  way?" 


244  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

"Hullo,  old  flick!"  exclaimed  the  battle  cruiser 
flagship.  "Hope  you're  keeping  gay  up  there?" 

The  American  chuckled  and  the  laugh  ran  round 
the  lattice-masted  ships.  "We  surely  are,"  was 
the  reply.  "Say,  you  missed  a  joyous  stunt  last 
week "  he  lowered  his  voice,  for  the  fleet  flag- 
ship has  long  ears.  "Fleet  exercises,  an'  we  came 
back  in  the  durndest  fog  ever.  Tumbled  slap  on 
top  of  a  U-boat  cruiser;  guess  he  got  sucked  to  the 
surface  in  the  wash  of  our  pro-pellors ;  we  were 
churning  up  most  of  the  cod  banks  of  the  North  Sea. 
Sir,  he  was  the  sickest-looking  U-boat  that  ever  jined 
the  flotilla  of  the  dead  men  when  we'd  finished  with 
him." 

The  battle  cruisers  expressed  polite  credulity  and 
congratulation. 

"Couldn't  see  the  British  flagship,"  said  the  ship 
who  had  done  most  of  the  business  of  despatching 
the  enemy.  "But  when  it  was  all  over,  my  cap'n — 
say,  d'you  know  my  cap'n?  Some  seaman! — waal, 
he  jest  flicked  a  wireless  signal  along  to  the  British 
admiral:  'Sunk  a  German  U-boat  cruiser,  latitood 
so  an'  so,  longitood  something  else — WHERE  AM  I?' ' 

Again  the  laughter  rippled  round  the  American 
squadron.  It  made  you  think  of  some  family  chuck- 
ling in  obscure  enjoyment  of  one  of  its  own  jokes. 

The  battle  cruisers  considered  it,  chewed  the  cud 
of  it  in  silence,  and  gave  it  up.  "You  don't  tumble? 
Waal,  Commander-in-chief  didn't  tumble  either. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  FLEET       245 

Took  a  long  time  to  think  it  over  an'  then  an- 
swered: 'Your  signal  received.  Last  sentence  not 
understood.  Congratulate  you/  ' 

The  battle  cruiser  flagship  felt  that  the  time  had 
come  to  say  something.  "Well,  that  was  very  nice. 
What — what  would  an  American  commander-in- 
chief  have  said?" 

"An  Ammurican?  An  Ammurican  admiral,  sir, 
would  have  answered:  Where  are  you?  Top  of 
the  class,  my  son!7  You  Britishers  are  very  im-pur- 
turbable  .  .  ." 

"Meaning  dull,"  said  a  battleship  in  the  nearest 
line.  "I'll  not  deny  we  are.  You'll  be  dull  in  about 
three  years'  time  if  we're  still  here.  But  I  must  say 
you've  brightened  things  up  for  us  no  end." 

"That  so?  Waal  .  .  .  you  put  us  wise  first. 
Guess  we  were  children  at  some  of  the  monkey-tricks 
you  call  tactics." 

The  battleships  murmured  polite  indistinctnesses, 
and  one  or  two  remembered  things  that  happened  in 
the  later  days  of  1914  when  war  was  still  in  process 
of  becoming  a  reality  to  their  serried  squadrons. 

"Wait  a  bit,"  said  the  American  flagship.  "We 
ain't  blooded  yet.  You  ain't  properly  blooded  yet. 
No,  boys,  Jutland  was  a  game  of  tag  to  what  we'll 
face  together  one  of  these  days." 

"How  long,  how  long?"  rumbled  down  the  lines 
of  the  battle  fleet. 

"Quien  sabe?    That's  what  they  say  down  Manil- 


246  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

la.    You  don't  know  Manilla  though,  I  guess.    But 
when  it  comes — it'll  be " 

"Our  turn!"  interrupted  a  clear,  quiet  voice  in 
under  the  lee  of  one  of  the  islands.  It  proceeded 
apparently  from  a  row  of  low-lying  shadows  on  the 
surface  of  the  water.  "We've  done  some  waiting 
too."  An  ocean-going  submarine  was  talking. 
"Quiet  and  deep  .  .  .  down  among  the  flatfish  and 
the  mine  moorings  where  you  never  go — er — at  least 
we  hope  you'll  never  go.  Off  the  Terschellings  .  .  . 
Heligoland  Bight  .  .  .  the  mouth  of  the  Ems.  Com- 
ing up  to  breathe  at  night  with  a  conning-tower 
among  the  awash  wave-tops  .  .  .  letting  the  little 
ships  go  by  in  the  hope  of  bagging  a  big  one.  .  .  . 
We  can  teach  you  how  to  wait,  my  masters,  we  of  the 
watch  below." 

It  was  a  long  sentence  for  a  submarine,  accustomed 
as  they  are  to  holding  their  breath  rather  than  to 
waste  it  in  mere  conversation.  It  is  their  pent-up 
breath  that  spits  the  deadly  torpedo  at  its  quarry  a 
couple  of  miles  away. 

The  battleships  were  silent.  They  didn't  alto- 
gether like  the  reference  to  flatfish  and  mine  moor- 
ings and  depths  their  keels  left  undisturbed  in  their 
majestic  passage. 

A  seaplane-carrier  chuckled  out  of  the  darkness, 
where  she  lay  like  a  hen  with  her  brood  under  her 
wing.  "I  don't  know  whether  you  submarines  are 
trying  to  make  us  surface  craft  feel  uncomfortable, 
but  I  could  tell  you  a  story  or  two  about  what  goes 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  FLEET       247 

on  in  the  air  that  would  make  you  feel  giddy — very 
giddy  indeed." 

"I  don't  want  to  know  what  goes  on  in  the  airy 
thanks,"  said  an  armed  merchant  cruiser.  She  had 
called  in  for  oil  that  afternoon,  and  was  distinctly 
related  to  the  seaplane-carrier.  "A  German  subma- 
rine missed  me  with  two  torpedoes  last  week;  I  came 
quite  near  enough  to  going  up  into  the  air  then  for 
my  taste,  thanks  very  much." 

"You're  all  deplorably  self-centred,"  observed  the 
theatre  ship,  speaking  for  the  first  time.  She  was  a 
condemned  cargo  boat  that  had  been  gutted,  and 
her  interior  transformed  into  a  lecture  room  and 
theatre.  She  was  a  sort  of  convivial  missionary  who 
ministered  to  the  fleet  irrespective  of  class  or  creed 
or  function.  "Not  to  say  cliquey.  Each  one  of  you 
seems  to  think  that  the  fate  of  the  Empire  depends 
on  you  individually.  It's  not  a  bad  spirit,  I  admit, 
but  it  can  be  carried  too  far.  Individually  you  count 
for  very  little  without  each  other's  help.  Where 
would  the  destroyers  be  without  the  mine-sweepers 
— where  would  you  all  be  without  the  mine-sweepers? 
Where  would  the  battleships  and  battle  cruisers  be 
without  the  destroyers  and  light  cruisers  to  screen 
and  scout?  A  seaplane-carrier  without  support 
would  be  a  sad  sight  ten  minutes  after  the  Germans 
heard  she  was  in  the  neighbourhood.  Submarines — 
er — submarines  ..." 

"Well?"  asked  the  submarines  quietly.  The  the- 
atre ship  was  delivering  her  oration  on  the  strength 


248  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

of  a  lecture  some  staff  officer  had  recently  given  on 
board  her  to  a  number  of  yawning  brother  officers. 
It  had  been  called  "The  Co-ordination  of  Fleet 
Units,"  or  some  such  title,  but  unhappily  the  theatre 
ship  couldn't  remember  how  it  went  on  when  you 
got  to  the  part  about  submarines. 

The  rest  of  the  fleet  said  nothing,  but  contented 
themselves  with  winking  to  each  other  mischie- 
vously. They  loved  the  theatre  ship  and  owed  her  a 
debt  immeasurable,  but  there  were  times  when  she 
adopted  the  "Mission  to  Seamen"  pose  and  became 
rather  tedious. 

"Well?"  repeated  the  submarines  moored  in  rows 
alongside  their  parent  ship,  and  nudged  each  other 
in  the  ribs.  As  all  the  fleet  knew,  submarines  are 
the  Ishmaels  of  the  Navy,  who  at  sea  vanish  instant- 
ly on  the  sight  of  either  enemy  or  friend. 

"Who  might  we  be  dependent  on  to  help  us  do 
our  jobs?" 

"Er — as  I  was  saying,"  continued  the  theatre  ship 
rather  lamely,  "where  should  we  all  be  without  the 
submarines  .  .  .?" 

"We!"  echoed  the  submarines7  parent  ship,  jeal- 
ous of  her  charges.  "I  like  that,  you  old  tub-thump- 
er! Where  are  your  bally  innards?"  Actually  she 
said  neither  "bally"  nor  "innards." 

Pandemonium  ensued,  squadrons  and  flotillas  all 
talking  at  once:  jest  and  repartee,  personalities  and 
retorts  flickering  across  the  harbour  like  summer 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  FLEET       249 

lightning.  Above  it  all,  quelling  the  noisy  tumult  on 
the  instant,  boomed  the  voice  of  the  fleet  flagship : 
"Still  I" 

A  night  bird  called  in  some  far-off  bay,  and  the 
water  lapped  against  the  smooth  grey  flanks  of  the 
ships,  but  there  were  no  other  sounds.  Then — 

"Battle  and  battle  cruiser  squadrons  and  light 
cruisers  raise  steam  for  full  speed  with  all  despatch. 
Report  by  squadrons  when  ready.  Nth  Battle 
Squadron,  destroyers,  and  submarines  proceed  in- 
stantly and  rendezvous  in  execution  of  previous  or- 
ders.15 The  echoes  broke  back  from  the  quiet  hills 
and  died  away. 

"Gee!"  muttered  an  irrepressible  American  ship. 
"Hold  tight,  Emma !  we're  off  I" 

"Gate!"  yelped  the  destroyers,  "stand  by  the 
gates!"  and  presently  they  sped  forth  to  meet  the 
dawn  and  their  destiny.  The  grinding  sound  of 
cables  crawling  through  the  hawsepipes  as  the  squad- 
ron shortened  in  filled  the  harbour  they  had  left 
behind.  The  dark  water  eddied  and  swirled  as  each 
ship  tried  her  engines ;  then  one  by  one  from  the  flag- 
ships of  squadrons  came  the  deep-toned  "Ready,  aye, 
ready!" 

Each  time,  like  the  chanted  responses  to  a  litany, 
the  hospital  ships  echoed  "God  go  with  you!"  So 
the  last  hour  of  night  passed. 

Outside,  as  the  dawn  was  paling  in  the  sky,  the 
night  patrols  challenged  the  van  of  the  battle  fleet 


250  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

forming  up  across  the  waste  of  grey  waters  beneath 
its  pall  of  smoke. 

"St.  George  I"  rang  the  challenge.  In  one  great 
breath  came  the  fleet's  reply: 

"England!" 


"H.M.S.  VINDICTIVE" 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  EPIC  OF  ST.  GEORGE'S  DAY,  1918 

".  .  .  .  Let  a  plain  statement  suffice." — Rudyard  Kipling. 

IT  may  be  well  to  emphasise  at  the  outset  that 
the  forces  which  participated  in  the  raids  on 
Ostend  and  Zeebrugge  on  the  night  of  April  22nd- 
23rd,  did  not  set  out  with  the  mere  intention  of 
giving  the  world  an  exhibition  of  gallantry  and  dash 
— a  sort  of  grim  Naval  and  Military  Tournament 
for  the  benefit  of  newspaper  readers.  The  enter- 
prise had  three  clearly  defined  military  objectives: 
the  first  of  which  was  the  blocking  of  the  Bruges 
ship  canal  at  its  entrance  into  the  sea  at  Zeebrugge; 
the  second,  the  bottling  up  of  Ostend  harbour  from 
the  sea;  and  thirdly,  the  infliction  of  the  maximum 
damage  possible  in  the  time  upon  the  enemy  in  oc- 

251 


252  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

cupation  of  these  two  ports.  The  casualties,  consid- 
ering the  desperate  nature  of  the  undertaking,  were 
light  and  scarcely  to  be  compared  with  those  along 
the  British  front  during  a  single  night  of  trench 
raids;  and  those  among  that  gallant  band  of  volun- 
teers who  did  not  return,  died  in  the  knowledge  that 
they  had  added  to  history  a  page  as  fair  as  any  the 
Navy  has  yet  contributed. 

The  heavily  fortified  coastline  between  these  two 
nests  of  the  enemy  forms  the  base  of  a  triangle  with 
Bruges  at  the  apex,  affording  protection  to  a  num- 
ber of  German  torpedo-craft  and  submarines  within 
easy  striking  distance  of  the  British  coast  and  com- 
merce routes.  The  scheme  adopted  for  sealing  the 
two  exits  of  this  system  was  roughly  as  follows. 

It  was  proposed  that  obsolete  craft  filled  with  con- 
crete and  manned  by  volunteers  should  proceed  un- 
der their  own  steam  and  be  sunk  in  the  entrances  of 
the  canal  opening  into  Zeebrugge  harbour,  and  of 
the  port  of  Ostend.  A  storming  force  was  to  di&- 
embark  on  Zeebrugge  mole  with  demolition  mate- 
rials, bombs,  and  machine-guns,  and  destroy  the  sea- 
plane sheds  and  other  establishments.  Simulta- 
neously with  the  disembarkation  of  this  force  the 
viaduct  connecting  the  curved  arm  of  the  mole  to  the 
mainland  was  to  be  blown  up,  thus  preventing  the 
enemy  from  despatching  reinforcements  to  support 
the  guns'  crews  and  defenders  of  the  mole.  While 
these  assaults  were  in  progress,  a  force  of  monitors 
and  aerial  bombing  squadrons  were  detailed  to  main- 


ST.  GEORGE'S  DAY,  1918  253 

tain  a  furious  bombardment  by  sea  and  air  of  all 
coastal  batteries  and  works  of  military  importance 
in  the  neighbourhood. 

The  broad  outline  of  the  plan  having  been  decided 
upon,  the  necessary  blocking  craft  were  selected  from 
the  Knackers'  Yards  of  the  Navy,  ships  whose  names 
conjure  up  forgotten  commissions  in  tropic  seas  and 
a  Navy  fast  passing  into  legend.  Thetis,  Intrepid, 
and  Iphigenia  for  Zeebrugge,  Sirius  and  Brilliant  for 
Ostend.  To  carry  the  assaulting  parties  to  the  mole, 
H.M.S.  Vindictive  was  awakened  from  her  well- 
earned  repose  on  the  Motherbank,  and  two  Mersey 
ferry-craft,  the  Iris  and  Daffodil,  were  commissioned 
to  pass  down  to  posterity  as  her  consorts  in  this  des- 
perate undertaking. 

The  ships  were  easier  to  select  than  the  men.  In- 
vitations were  sent  to  the  Grand  Fleet,  the  Home 
Port  Depots,  and  the  "Red"  and  "Blue"  Marines 
to  supply  the  requisite  volunteers;  the  Royal  Aus- 
tralian and  Canadian  Navies  claimed  their  right  to 
participate,  and  were  also  invited  to  send  representa- 
tives. The  response  would  have  furnished  a  force 
sufficient  to  block  half  the  ports  of  Germany  had 
such  an  enterprise  been  contemplated. 

Eventually,  however,  the  selections  were  made, 
and  the  flower  of  the  Sea  Service  set  its  hand  to  the 
task.  Acting  Captain  A.  F.  B.  Carpenter,  R.N.,  was 
appointed  in  command  of  the  Vindictive,  Com- 
mander Valentine  Gibbs,  R.N.,  to  the  Iris,  and  Lieu- 
tenant H.  G.  Campbell,  R.N.,  to  the  Daffodil.  In 


254  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

these  three  ships  the  storming  and  demolition  par- 
ties were  to  embark,  and  the  latter  was  also  charged 
with  the  duty  of  pushing  the  Vindictive  alongside 
the  mole  and  holding  her  there  if  her  specially  de- 
signed mole-anchors  failed  to  grapple. 

The  commands  of  the  various  blockships  were 
distributed  as  follows:  Thetis ,  Commander  R.  S. 
Sneyd,  D.S.O.,  R.N.;  Intrepid,  Lieutenant  S  S. 
Bonham  Carter,  R.N. ;  Iphlgenla,  Lieutenant  E.  W. 
Billyard-Leake,  R.N.  The  officer  originally  placed 
in  command  of  the  last-named  ship,  and  who  actually 
superintended  the  early  preparations  of  all  the  block- 
ships,  was  Lieutenant  I.  B.  Franks,  R.N.  After 
months  of  labour  and  indefatigable  enthusiasm,  this 
officer  was  laid  low  by  appendicitis  two  days  before 
the  actual  attack;  he  had  in  consequence  to  be  re- 
moved to  a  neighbouring  hospital,  where  he  was 
only  restrained  (according  to  rumour)  by  the  des- 
perate expedient  of  hiding  his  trousers. 

The  two  ships  destined  for  Ostend,  Brilliant  and 
SiriuSf  were  commanded  respectively  by  Commander 
A.  E.  Godsal,  R.N.,  and  Lieutenant-Commander  H. 
N.  M.  Hardy,  D.S.O.,  R.N.  The  attempt  to  block 
Ostend  proved  only  partly  successful,  as  it  trans- 
pired, and  on  a  later  date  Commander  Godsal  made 
a  second  effort  to  close  the  entrance  that  cost  him 
his  life.  The  Vindictive,  patched  and  battle-scarred, 
was  used  for  the  second  venture,  and  lies,  at  the  time 
of  writing,  amid  the  silt  at  the  entrance  of  Ostend 


ST:  GEORGE'S  DAY,  1918  255 

harbour,  a  fitting  monument  to  the  sturdy  spirit  who 
took  and  left  her  there. 

The  Naval  storming  and  demolition  forces,  un- 
der the  command  of  Captain  H.  C.  Halahan,  D.8.O., 
R.N.,  and  the  Marine  storming  force  under  Lieu- 
tenant-Colonel B.  N.  Elliott,  Royal  Marines,  were 
distributed  between  the  Findictive,  Ins,  and  Daffo- 
dil. The  Naval  storming  party  was  in  charge  of 
Lieutenant-Commander  A.  L.  Harrison,  R.N.,  and 
the  demolition  force  under  the  orders  of  Lieutenant 
C.  C.  Dickinson,  R.N. 

Finally  the  two  submarines  which,  filled  with  high 
explosive  and  manned  by  volunteers,  were  to  be 
launched  against  the  viaduct  to  blow  it  up,  were 
assigned  to  Lieutenant  Aubrey  C.  Newbold,  R.N., 
and  Lieutenant  R.  D.  Sandford,  R.N.,  and  escorted 
by  a  picket-boat  commanded  by  the  latter's  brother, 
Lieutenant-Commander  F.  H.  Sandford,  D.S.O., 
R.N.,  who  personally  organised  this  most  desperate 
coup. 

An  attack  of  this  nature,  involving  the  use  of 
very  light  craft,  smoke  screens,  aircraft,  and  a  dis- 
embarkation alongside  a  pier  in  an  open  seaway, 
necessarily  depended  for  success  upon  a  variety  of 
factors.  Sea,  tides,  wind,  and  visibility  all  played 
their  part,  a  conjunction  of  ideal  conditions  being 
such  that  it  could  only  occur  at  rare  intervals,  and 
then  by  chance.  The  ships  and  men  having  been  se- 
lected, and  the  entire  scheme  rehearsed,  perfected, 
and  elaborated,  ships  and  men  settled  down  to  the 


,256  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

long  wait.  The  men  in  the  front-line  trench  waiting 
to  go  "over  the  bags"  are  not  expansive  in  describing 
(their  sensations.  Something  of  that  tense  grim  an- 
ticipation should  have  found  a  place  on  board  those 
crowded  ships.  Nevertheless,  a  spirit  of  pure  picnic 
appears  to  have  reigned,  coupled  with  a  discipline 
maintained  by  the  awesome  threat  of  not  being  al- 
lowed to  participate  in  the  "show"  when  it  came  off. 

The  day  came  at  length,  and  on  May  22nd — St. 
George's  Eve — the  force  proceeded  from  its  place 
of  assembly  and,  escorted  by  destroyers  and  air- 
craft, passed  up  Channel.  It  was  a  brave  and  un- 
usual array  that  swept  to  the  north-east  as  the  light 
faded  from  the  sky.  Modern  destroyers  steamed 
on  the  wings  of  the  columns,  one  of  which  flew  the 
flag  of  Vice-Admiral  Roger  Keyes,  C.B.,  C.M.G., 
D.S.O.,  M.V.O.,  the  old  Vindictive  in  the  van  of  the 
centre  column  with  the  Iris  and  Daffodil  in  tow,  for 
all  the  world  like  veteran  hound  on  the*trail  with 
her  two  puppies  on  her  flanks;  the  five  valiant  block- 
ships  followed,  each  with  specially  detailed  parties 
below  stoking  for  all  they  were  worth,  that  their  old 
ships'  last  voyage  should  be  made  at  a  seemly  speed. 
A  cloud  of  motor  launches  filled  the  waterways  be- 
tween the  columns,  and  the  two  obsolete  submarines, 
with  their  escorting  picket-boat,  brought  up  the  rear. 

Meanwhile,  from  far  and  wide  below  the  misty 
horizon  the  storm  was  gathering.  Monitors,  sup- 
ported by  British  and  French  destroyers,  moved 
quietly  towards  their  allotted  stations  preparatory 


ST.  GEORGE'S  DAY,  1918  257 

to  the  attack.  From  the  Grand  Fleet's  eyrie  in  the 
far  north  to  the  base  of  the  East  Coast  Striking 
Force,  covering  and  supporting  squadrons  were  un- 
der weigh  as  the  night  wore  on.  The  destroyer  flo- 
tillas swung  into  position  like  cats  round  a  mouse- 
hole  lest  any  of  the  enemy's  torpedo-craft  should  be 
tempted  to  bolt  for  the  open  when  the  attack  began. 
The  night  air  was  resonant  with  the  drone  of  aerial 
craft  on  the  wing. 

Once  the  motley  little  fleet  stopped,  while  the 
surplus  steaming  parties  were  disembarked,  with 
many  a  fierce  hand-grip  and  the  muttered  "Good 
luck,  mate!"  that  is  the  fighting  man's  Ave  atque 
vale!  At  the  prearranged  parting  of  the  ways  the 
force  divided,  steering  separate  courses  for  Ostend 
and  Zeebrugge,  where,  under  the  respective  com- 
mands of  Commander  Ion  Hamilton  Benn,  M.P., 
R.N.V.R.,  and  Captain  Ralph  Collins,  R.N.,  the 
motor  launches  were  already  close  inshore,  trailing 
their  smoke  screens  across  the  eyes  of  an  uneasy  and 
apprehensive  enemy. 

Half  an  hour  before  the  Zeebrugge  force  arrived 
at  its  destination,  star-shell  began  to  curve  skyward 
from  the  menaced  harbour,  fruitlessly  searching  the 
darkness  and  artificial  mist  that  enveloped  the  mole 
and  batteries.  A  little  later,  however,  the  wind  (on 
which  the  smoke  screen  depended  for  its  success) 
wavered,  died  down,  and  awoke  lightly  again  from 
a  contrary  direction.  Groping  through  the  white 
billows  of  fog  rolling  back  upon  her,  the  Vindictive 


258  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

came  out  into  a  clear  space  lit  by  star-shell,  and  saw, 
a  cable  ahead,  her  destination.  A  single  gun  on  the 
mole  opened  fire  with  a  bark  like  a  challenge,  and 
the  next  instant  loosed  a  hellish  uproar  of  guns  from 
ship  and  shore.  Through  a  tornado  of  shrapnel 
and  machine-gun  fire,  Captain  Carpenter  brought 
his  veteran  command  alongside  the  mole,  and  before 
St.  George's  Day  was  a  minute  old  the  Vindictive, 
blazing  defiance  from  battery  and  top,  was  grating 
against  her  fenders  in  the  swell  that  surged  across 
the  outer  wall. 

According  to  the  carefully  thought-out  scheme, 
Lieutenant  Campbell  in  the  Daffodil  thrust  the  bows 
of  his  ship  against  the  Vindictive' s  quarter  and  held 
her  bodily  alongside,  enabling  the  already  splintered 
and  shattered  "brows,"  or  gangways,  to  reach  the 
mole. 

By  this  time  the  point-blank  fire  had  taken  heavy 
toll  amid  the  closely  packed  ranks  awaiting  disem- 
barkation. Colonel  Elliot  and  Major  Cordner,  the 
two  senior  officers  of  the  Royal  Marine  storming 
parties,  and  Captain  Halahan,  Royal  Navy,  were 
already  dead.  Commander  Valentine  Gibbs  brought 
the  Iris  alongside  in  the  wake  of  the  Vindictive  and 
endeavoured  to  grapple,  when  he  was  struck  by  a 
shell  and  mortally  wounded.  Lieutenant  Hawkins, 
R.N.,  reached  the  mole,  secured  the  grappling  an- 
chor, and  died.  He  was  instantly  followed  by  Lieu- 
tenant-Commander Bradford,  R.N.,  who  was  swung 
from  a  derrick  with  a  second  anchor,  and  succeeded 


ST.  GEORGE'S  DAY,  1918  259 

in  securing  it  before  he,  too,  was  killed,  his  riddled 
body  falling  into  the  water.  A  number  of  his  men 
laboured  with  fruitless  devotion  to  recover  his 
corpse,  one,  Petty  Officer  Hallihan,  giving  his  life 
in  the  attempt. 

No  sooner  had  the  two  foremost  brows  been 
launched  from  the  Vindictive  than  the  storming  par- 
ties, led  by  Lieutenant  Commanders  A.  L.  Harrison 
and  B.  F.  Adams,  and  Major  B.  G.  Waller,  Royal 
Marines,  hurled  themselves  across.  The  men  were 
burdened  with  Lewis  guns,  bombs,  and  demolition 
impedimenta ;  the  scene  of  the  swell  caused  the  Vin- 
dictive to  plunge  heavily,  and  the  brows  rocked  above 
a  dizzy  30  feet  drop,  rising  and  falling  as  the  ship 
rolled.  Yet  the  landing  was  accomplished  in  the 
face  of  a  gusty  machine-gun  fire  that  swept  the  face 
of  the  mole  like  the  breath  of  Death. 

The  first  stormers  of  the  mole  found  themselves 
on  a  pathway  about  nine  feet  wide,  inside  and  about 
four  feet  below  the  parapet  of  the  mole.  Two  Ger- 
man destroyers  were  alongside  the  mole  on  the  har- 
bour side,  but  showed  no  activity,  and  the  handful 
of  the  enemy  found  on  the  mole  who  subsequently 
attempted  to  regain  these  vessels  were  killed,  the 
destroyers  being  liberally  bombed. 

Followed  by  his  men,  Lieutenant-Commander 
Adams  captured  the  look-out  station  on  the  light- 
house extension,  and  was  joined  here  by  Wing-Com- 
mander F.  A.  Brock,  R.N.A.S.,  who  had  come  in 
search  of  certain  information,  risking  the  hazard  of 


260  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

that  bullet-swept  mole  to  gain  it.  This  gallant  and 
public-spirited  officer  was  missed  shortly  after,  and 
not  seen  again,  but  not  before  he  had  passed  on  to 
his  companions  the  fruits  of  his  quest. 

In  the  meanwhile  Lieutenant-Commander  Harri- 
son led  a  desperate  rush  to  the  westward  against  a 
machine-gun  that  was  causing  heavy  casualties.  He 
was  killed  at  the  head  of  his  men,  and  all  old  Rugby 
Internationals  will  mourn  that  gallant  forward  who 
led  his  last  rush  to  the  muzzle  of  a  German  gun. 
Lieutenant-Commander  Adams  subsequently  re- 
turned and  searched  for  his  body  without  avail  amid 
the  dead  and  litter  of  the  shrapnel-spattered  cause- 
way. 

Details  of  that  wild  brave  hour's  work  on  Zee- 
brugge  mole  will  doubtless  come  to  us,  as  such  de- 
tails do,  piecemeal  in  the  years  ahead;  and  many,  all 
too  many,  will  for  ever  go  unrecorded.  In  all  the 
dashing  gallantry  of  that  deathless  assault  none 
played  a  finer  part  than  the  Royal  Marines,  the 
Corps  that  wears  a  laurel  wreath  in  its  proud  crest. 
And  when  the  work  was  done  and  the  syren  event- 
ually hooted  the  Recall  through  the  din  and  crash- 
ing uproar  of  bursting  shell,  it  was  the  Marines, 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  who  covered  the  retreat. 

Of  the  retirement  itself  mere  imagination  tells 
enough  to  stir  the  blood  and  quicken  a  man's  heart. 
The  enemy  had  concentrated  the  fire  of  every  gun 
that  would  bear  upon  the  mole  and  brows  leading 
to  the  Vindictive :  back  through  this  savage  barrage 


ST.  GEORGE'S  DAY,  1918  261 

came  the  remnants  of  those  gallant  companies,  reel- 
ing along  with  their  wounded  on  their  backs,  to  be 
struck  down  and  to  rise  again  and  stagger  on  with 
their  burdens,  turning  every  now  and  then  to  shake 
bloody  fists  at  the  flaming  docks  and  town  beneath 
its  pall  of  smoke.  .  .  . 

The  blockships  in  the  meanwhile  had  made  the 
entrance,  and  led  by  Thetis  crashed  through  the  ob- 
struction at  the  mouth  of  the  harbour.  Thetis,  find- 
ing that  her  propellers  were  foul  of  wires  and  nets, 
and  that  she  was  rapidly  losing  way,  signalled  to  her 
two  consorts  to  pass  to  starboard  of  her  by  firing 
a  green  rocket.  She  then  grounded,  and  riddled  by 
gunfire  from  shore  batteries  and  enemy  craft  in  the 
harbour,  firing  on  her  at  almost  point-blank  range, 
took  a  heavy  list.  Plastered  with  high  explosives 
and  gas,  helpless  and  immovable,  she  nevertheless  en- 
gaged the  nearest  shore  battery  with  her  forecastle 
gun  until  her  own  smoke  made  it  impossible  to  con- 
tinue firing.  Engineer-Lieutenant-Commander  Bod- 
die  fearlessly  stuck  to  his  post  in  the  engine-room 
and  succeeded  in  restarting  one  engine.  This  swung 
her  head  into  the  dredged  channel  of  the  canal,  up 
which  the  Intrepid  and  Iphigenia  had  already  passed 
cheering  wildly  and  blazing  fury  from  every  gun. 
Here  the  Thetis  quietly  sank.  A  motor  launch  un- 
der command  of  Lieutenant  H.  A.  Littleton,  R.N. 
V.R.,  who  had  followed  devotedly  at  her  heels,  em- 
barked the  surviving  members  of  the  ship's  com- 


262  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

pany  and,  turning,  ran  the  gauntlet  of  the  harbour 
mouth  and  regained  the  outer  sea. 

The  Intrepid,  on  passing  the  Thetis,  made  for 
the  canal  mouth,  which  was  clearly  visible  in  the  pale 
unearthly  light  of  the  star-shell.  The  enemy  fire  at 
this  moment  being  concentrated  on  the  upper  works 
of  the  Vindictive  alongside  the  mole  and  the  already 
disabled  Thetis,  Intrepid  was  enabled  to  reach  the 
mouth  of  the  canal,  where  Lieutenant  Bonham  Car- 
ter calmly  manoeuvred  her  into  position  and  fired  the 
charges  which  sank  her. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  the  additional  steam- 
ing parties  carried  by  the  blockships  had  disem- 
barked before  the  ships  neared  the  zone  of  opera- 
tions. A  number  of  Intrepid's  party,  however,  de- 
termined to  participate  in  the  coming  fight,  had  con- 
trived to  remain  on  board.  These  surplus  ratings, 
with  the  whole  of  the  Intrepid's  crew,  then  coolly 
abandoned  the  ship  in  two  cutters  and  a  skiff.  In 
these  boats  they  rowed  down  the  canal  and  were 
picked  up  in  the  harbour  by  a  British  destroyer  and 
a  motor  launch  in  command  of  Lieutenant  P.  T. 
Dean,  R.N.V.R.  Lieutenant  Bonham  Carter,  to- 
gether with  his  First  Lieutenant  and  Sub-Lieuten- 
ant, and  four  petty  officers,  remained  behind  to  en- 
sure that  the  ship  was  sunk  properly.  The  seven 
then  launched  the  Carley  float,  and  in  this  unwieldly 
craft,  lit  by  searchlights  and  with  machine-gun  fire 
spurting  all  round  them,  paddled  calmly  down  the 
canal  and  across  the  harbour.  They  were  also  picked 


ST.  GEORGE'S  DAY,  1918  263 

up  by  Lieutenant  Dean,  whose  handling  of  the 
crowded  motor  launch  under  a  withering  fire,  and 
blinded  by  searchlights,  was  described  by  Lieutenant 
Bonham  Carter  (whose  standard  of  gallantry  may 
be  presumed  to  be  no  mean  one)  as  "simply  magnifi- 


cent." 


This  motor  launch  subsequently  picked  up  the  sur- 
vivors of  the  Iphigenia,  and  succeeded  in  conveying 
her  freight  outside  the  harbour  and  alongside  the 
destroyer  flying  Admiral  Keyes'  flag,  Of  all  the  offi- 
cers and  men  who  formed  Intrepid's  ship's  company 
(and  never  surely  was  a  ship's  name  more  happily 
chosen),  only  one  man,  Stoker  Petty  Officer  H.  L. 
Palliser,  was  killed. 

H.M.S.  Iphigenia,  the  third  of  the  blockships  to 
enter  the  harbour  under  heavy  shrapnel  fire,  followed 
in  the  wake  of  the  Intrepid.  The  steam-pipe  of  her 
syren  was  severed,  enveloping  the  bridge  in  steam 
and  rendering  navigation  no  easy  matter.  She 
rammed  a  dredger  with  a  barge  in  tow,  crashed 
clear,  and  drove  the  barge  ahead  of  her  into  the 
canal.  Lieutenant  Billyard-Leake  caught  sight  of 
the  Intrepid  aground  with  a  gap  between  herself  and 
the  eastern  bank,  and  manoeuvred  his  ship  into  the 
vacant  space.  He  then  cleared  the  engine-room  of 
its  heroic  complement,  fired  the  sinking  charges,  and 
abandoned  ship  in  the  only  remaining  cutter.  The 
motor  launch  that  had  already  picked  up  Intrepid's 
crew  dashed  in  to  the  rescue,  finally  backing  out  stern 
first  (her  bows  being  badly  holed)  and  losing  half 


264  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

her  little  complement  of  deck  hands  from  machine- 
gun-fire  ere  she  reached  comparative  safety. 

As  has  already  been  said,  the  Brilliant  and  Sirius 
failed  to  block  Ostend  completely,  but  were  sunk 
where  they  grounded,  and  where  they  constitute  con- 
siderable obstruction  to  free  navigation  in  these  wa- 
ters. The  rescues  of  officers  and  men  were  effected 
by  motor  launches  with  the  same  fearless  dash  as  was 
shown  by  the  officers  commanding  these  little  craft 
at  Zeebrugge.  Lieutenant  K.  R.  Hoare,  D.S.O., 
R.N.V.R.,  embarked  practically  all  the  men  from 
the  Sirius  and  sixteen  from  the  Brilliants  whaler, 
sunk  by  gunfire.  The  remainder  of  the  Brilliants 
crew  were  taken  off  by  Commander  Hamilton  Benn 
and  Lieutenant  R.  Bourke,  R.N.V.R. 

After  leaving  the  Sirius  an  officer  and  a  number 
of  men  were  found  to  be  missing;  a  motor  boat, 
commanded  by  Sub-Lieutenant  P.  B.  Clarke,  R.N.R., 
with  Lieutenant  E.  L.  Berthon,  D.S.C.,  R.N.,  on 
board,  thereupon  returned,  boarded  the  ship  under 
a  heavy  and  accurate  fire,  and  searched  for  their 
missing  comrades.  They  found  no  signs  of  life  in 
either  ship,  but  the  missing  officer  and  men  were 
subsequently  picked  up  by  a  British  cruiser  thirteen 
miles  out  to  sea,  still  pulling  gamely. 

The  part  played  by  the  submarine  which  destroyed 
the  viaduct,  and  by  her  attendant  picket-boat,  must 
not  be  overshadowed  by  the  deathless  tale  unfolding 
in  the  bullet-whipped  waters  of  the  adjoining  har- 
bour, and  along  the  bloodstained  parapet  of  the 


ST.  GEORGE'S  DAY,  1918  265 

mole.  It  is  deserving  of  a  Saga  all  its  own,  but  un- 
til that  is  written,  the  tale  is  best  told  simply,  halting 
though  the  prose.  Owing  to  a  breakdown,  only  one 
submarine  reached  Zeebrugge,  under  the  command 
of  Lieutenant  Sandf  ord,  R.N.  The  mole  was  sighted 
silhouetted  against  the  blaze  of  guns  and  search- 
lights, and  under  a  heavy  fire  of  4-inch  shell  the 
craft,  with  her  cargo  of  high  explosives,  was  launched 
at  full  speed  at  the  rows  of  piers  supporting  the  via* 
duct.  She  struck  at  right  angles,  riding  up  on  to  the 
horizontal  girders  and  penetrating  up  to  the  conning- 
tower.  The  crew  then  launched  the  skiff,  ignited  the 
fuses,  and  pulled  clear,  while  a  company  of  riflemen 
on  the  viaduct  above  opened  fire  upon  them  with  ma- 
chine-guns, rifles,  and  pompoms.  They  continued 
pulling  against  a  strong  tide,  and  although  nearly  all 
were  wounded  (Lieutenant  Sandf  ord  twice)  and  the 
boat  only  kept  afloat  by  use  of  a  specially  designed 
pump,  succeeded  in  getting  about  300  yards  clear 
before  the  explosion  took  place.  As  was  anticipated, 
the  viaduct  ceased  to  exist,  together  with  the  com- 
pany of  riflemen:  concrete,  girders,  men,  guns,  and 
searchlights  being  hurled  to  the  skies  in  a  column  of 
flame.  The  attendant  picket-boat  then  swooped 
down  and  rescued  the  occupants  of  the  skiff,  trans- 
ferring them  later  to  one  of  the  destroyers  in  the 
offing.  The  rescue  was  carried  out  under  most  haz- 
ardous conditions,  and  the  little  steamboat,  manned 
by  a  crew  of  volunteers,  with  her  fore  compartment 
full  of  water,  returned  to  England  under  her  own 


266  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

steam,  and  thus  completed  a  journey  of  170  miles. 

One  British  destroyer  which  boldly  entered  Zee- 
brugge  harbour  discharged  all  her  torpedoes  at  the 
vessels  alongside  the  mole,  and  was  disabled  by  shell 
fire.  She  struggled  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  out- 
side the  entrance  to  the  harbour  and  lay  there  a 
helpless  log,  sinking  fast.  A  sister  destroyer,  under 
command  of  Lieutenant-Commander  H.  E.  Gore- 
Langton,  R.N.,  swooped  down  upon  her  and  circled 
round  until  she  was  enveloped  in  smoke,  under  cover 
of  which  the  crew  were  disembarked.  Attempts 
were  made  to  take  her  in  tow,  but  the  hawser  was 
twice  shot  away.  Her  Captain,  Lieutenant-Com- 
mander K.  C.  Helyar,  R.N.,  remained  on  his  shat- 
tered bridge  to  the  last,  and  only  abandoned  her 
when  she  was  sinking  under  him. 

Back  across  the  Channel  as  the  day  was  breaking 
came  the  Findictive,  Iris,  and  Daffodil,  their  task 
accomplished,  and  their  names  flashing  proudly  to 
the  uttermost  outposts  of  the  Empire. 

Commander  Valentine  Gibbs,  R.N.,  died  during 
the  passage,  but  recovered  consciousness  before  the 
end  to  ask  faintly  if  all  went  well.  They  eased  the 
passing  soul  with  the  assurance  that  all  had  gone 
very  well;  and  in  that  comfortable  knowledge  his 
brave  spirit  fled. 

The  dawn  broadened  into  day  and  lit  the  smoul- 
dering docks  and  debris-strewn  mole  and  the  motion- 
less outstretched  figures  still  lying  where  they  fell. 
It  lit  the  shell-torn  upper  works  of  five  of  His  Maj- 


ST.  GEORGE'S  DAY,  1918  267 

esty's  ships  which  had  finished  their  last  commis- 
sions: Thetis,  Sirius,  Brilliant,  Intrepid  and  Iphi- 
genia,  lying  at  the  gates  of  the  enemy  that  none 
might  pass  out. 

To  these,  at  a  later  date,  was  added  the  Vindic- 
tive, and  though  in  time  the  enemy  may  dredge  and 
blast  the  passages  clear,  though  weed  and  rust  will 
creep  over  the  battered  hulls,  something  will  long 
remain  for  a  testimony  of  the  achievement;  some- 
thing—because of  the  blood  which  once  stained  the 
splintered  decks — 

"That  is  for  ever  England." 


EPILOGUE 

THE    shadows    were    lengthening    across    the 
smooth  lawns  and  terrace,  and  the  rooks  in  the 
elms  behind  the  stable  buildings  had  begun  their 
evening  wrangle  for  roosting-places  when  the  Ford 
car  came  rocking  and  hooting  up  the  avenue. 

268 


EPILOGUE  269 

"Just  as  well  we  didn't  go  to  meet  'em,"  mur- 
mured Aughtlone  on  the  threshold  of  the  entrance 
hall,  smiling  above  his  half-rolled  cigarette.  "I 
don't  see  much  of  the  place  these  days,  but  I'm  ex- 
pected to  hold  to  speed  limits  and  consider  my  ten- 
ants' nerves  on  the  King's  highway  when  I  am  here. 
Lorton,  of  course,  is  an  outlaw  by  instinct" — Lorton 
was  the  chauffeur.  "He's  been  enjoying  himself. 
To-morrow  I  shall  be  requested  to  restock  the  poul- 
try yards  of  four  villages  and  subscribe  largely  to 
the  cottage  hospital,  after  his  devastating  passage." 

Brakespear,  sitting  on  the  top  step  with  his  arms 
about  an  aged  setter,  chuckled  softly.  "You  always 
had  a  veneration  for  the  law,  Tony,"  he  said,  "even 
in  the  far-off  days  when  we  were  cadets  and  dis- 
cussed the  theory  of  war "  He  raised  one  fin- 
ger. "Hark !  That's  Jerome.  I  recognise  his  dulcet 
tones."  He  stood  up  shading  his  eyes.  "They're  all 
there — Mayhew,  Longridge,  Foster;  where's  Je- 
rome? I  can  hear  him.  .  .  .  Oh,  there  he  is!  At 
least,  there  are  his  feet  sticking  up  out  of  the  stern- 
sheets.  We're  going  to  have  our  dinner-party  after 
all,  Tony." 

The  car  swung  round  the  last  curve  with  a  splut- 
ter of  gravel,  and  slowed  down  as  it  approached  the 
door.  The  occupants  of  the  back  seats  appeared  to 
be  engaged  with  a  struggling  object  in  the  bottom  of 
the  car,  but  gradually  the  turmoil  subsided,  and  four 
flushed,  grinning  faces  appeared  over  the  side.  The 
car  stopped  and  the  passengers  emerged,  disentan- 


270  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

gling  suit-cases,  fishing-rods,  and  golf-clubs  from  the 
rugs.  The  chauffeur  sat  like  a  graven  image  with 
the  expression  of  a  man  who  has  done  his  best  to 
instruct  and  entertain  an  audience  without  hope  of 
either  recompense  or  acknowledgment  on  this  side 
of  the  grave. 

"Nous  sommes  arrives,"  crowed  the  stout  Jerome, 
still  panting  from  his  exertions ;  together  they  passed 
through  into  the  lofty  panelled  hall  in  a  babble  of 
chaff  and  laughter.  "The  stars  in  their  courses 
fought  for  us.  We  are  reunited,  my  children,  after 
— how  many  years  is  it?  Very  clever  of  you  to  ar- 
range it."  "Tony,"  said  another,  "that  chauffeur  of 
yours  flicked  your  old  bus  along  to  some  tune.  He's 


a  star-turn." 


Aughtlone  nodded  resignedly.  "He's  supposed 
to  be  suffering  from  shell-shock  and  a  piece  of  shrap- 
nel in  the  apex  of  the  heart.  You  wouldn't  some- 
how suspect  it,  would  you?  Bag  anything?" 

"Only  a  hen,"  said  Foster,  surrendering  his  suit- 
case to  the  butler  and  exploring  amid  decanters  and 
a  siphon  on  a  side  table.  "D.D.1  She  lost  her 
nerve  and  tried  to  nip  across  the  road.  Say  when, 
Jerry  .  .  ." 

The  stout  one  accepted  the  long  tumbler. 
"Thanks.  .  .  .  Heigh-ho !  Very  nice  too.  .  .  .  Yes, 
that  was  all  the  damage."  He  contemplated  their 
host  over  the  rim  of  his  glass.  "You  appear  to  own 
half  the  county,  Tony — don't  grudge  us  a  hen." 

Discharged  Dead.    The  official  notation  of  death  in  H.M.  Navy. 


EPILOGUE  271 

"I  grudge  you  nothing/*  replied  Aughtlone.  He 
surveyed  his  guests  affectionately.  "It's  so  jolly  good 
getting  you  all  together  like  this — at  least,  all  of  us 
that  are " 

"Quite  .  .  ."  said  Foster,  with  a  sudden  note  of 
seriousness  in  his  tone. 

"You  look  hot,"  said  Brakespear,  changing  the 
conversation,  himself  immaculate  in  white  flannels, 
with  sleekly  brushed  head. 

"All  very  fine  for  you  to  talk,"  said  the  fat  man 
with  the  eagle  of  the  Navy-that-Flies  on  the  sleeve 
of  his  monkey-jacket.  Only  crossed  over  from  Dun- 
kirk this  morning  by  the  destroyer.  Fell  in  with 
these — Thugs  at  Waterloo,  and  spent  the  best  part 
of  the  journey  under  the  seat." 

"We  had  to  strafe  him,"  explained  Longridge. 
"Twice  in  the  train  and  once  in  the  car.  He  would 
try  and  kiss  his  hand  to  all  the  loveliest  of  God's 


creatures  we  saw." 


Their  host  groaned.  "What  was  she  like — the 
last  one,  I  mean?" 

"In  a  governess  cart,"  said  Mayhew,  "with  two 
kids  and  a  pink  hat." 

The  Flying  Man  put  down  his  glass.  "The  pink 
hat  may  have  been  hers,"  he  said,  "but  I'm  blowed 
if " 

"No,"  said  Aughtlone  quickly.  "No,  they're  her 
nieces.  That's  the  vicar's  daughter.  'Mr.  Jerome, 
you'll  get  me  'ung,'  as  Harker  used  to  say." 

"Not  'tall,"  said  the  graceless  one.     "She  was 


272  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

much  too  busy  looking  after  the  fat  pony  to  notice 
us.  'Sides " 

Mayhew  glanced  at  his  watch.  "What  time's  din- 
ner, Tony?  Because  what  I'd  like  to  do  is  'strip 
right  down  an'  'ave  a  barf.  I  can't  really  talk  till 
I've  had  a  tub." 

"Me  too,"  chimed  in  Longridge.  "Chops  and  I 
have  come  straight  down  from  the  Northern  Base, 
travelling  all  night." 

The  host  pressed  the  bell.  "Loads  of  time.  Din- 
ner's not  for  another  three-quarters  of  an  hour. 
Have  a  cigarette  and  tell  us  about  the  Great  Silent 
Navy.  Remember,  I'm  only  a  dug-out  East-coast 
Minesweeper — a  humble  country  squire  masquerad- 
ing as  a  naval  officer — and  I  want  to  hear  about 
things.  There  wasn't  a  Grand  Fleet  when  I  retired." 

"How  long  leave  have  you  got,  Tony?"  asked 
Foster. 

"A  fortnight,"  replied  Aughtlone,  and  turned  as 
the  butler  reappeared.  "Hughes,  take  Mr.  May- 
hew  and  Mr.  Longridge  along  presently  and  sand- 
and-canvas  them.  They  can  share  one  bathroom, 
and  that'll  leave  room  for  us.  A  fortnight,"  he  re- 
sumed, and  extending  his  cigarette  watched  the 
steady  smoke  ascending.  "Blown  up  last  Tuesday, 
and  thought  it  was  a  fair  excuse  to  put  in  for  some 
leave  and  fix  up  this  dinner.  .  .  .  Nerves,  you  know, 
and  all  that."  He  smiled. 

"Of  course,"  said  the  fat  man.  "Very  tryin'  work. 
We  dropped  six  tons  of  explosives  on  Zeebrugge 


EPILOGUE  273; 

Monday  night,  and  lost  two  machines.  I  got  my 
leave  all  right  though,  thanks  to  a  twitching  eye- 
lid." He  surveyed  the  company  with  an  unmoved 
countenance.  "Nerves  are  the  devil  unless  you  take 
'em  in  time ;  and  I'm  getting  old  .  .  ."  He  chuckled 
fatly. 

Hughes  appeared  on  the  threshold  with  the  an- 
nouncement that  the  baths  were  ready.  He  had 
known  and  suffered  gladly  most  of  that  laughing 
assembly  off  and  on  for  the  past  decade.  "Put  a 
nice  cake  of  dog-soap  in  each  one,  Hughes,"  said 
Brakespear,  "and  have  their  clothes  baked.  .  .  . 
They're  trying  to  come  the  'Back-to-Blighty-from- 
the-Trenches'  on  us,  these  heroic  figures  from  the 
Battle  Fleet  and  Battle  Cruiser  Fleet.  Ask  'em  to 
tell  you  about  the  Battle  of  Jutland,  Hughes." 

Dinner,  with  the  mellow  candlelight  half  reveal- 
ing the  portraits  of  bygone  Aughtlones  on  the  walls, 
had  reached  the  duck-and-green-peas  stage  when 
Retrospection  laid  a  cold  finger  on  the  mind  of  the 
Battle  Fleet's  representative.  "Very  nearly  thought 
our  leave  was  going  to  be  kyboshed,"  he  observed  to 
Longridge. 

"Last  Monday?  Yes,  so  did  I.  Directly  we  got 
the  steaming  signal  I  thought  all  was  over.  We 
didn't  know  the  battleships  were  out  till  we  got  to 
sea :  heard  you  chatting  to  the  Admiralty  on  the 
H.P.  wireless  wave,  and  then  we  thought  there  was 
something  on."  The  Battle  Cruiser  Wireless  Ex- 


274  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

pert  chuckled.  "After  a  bit  the  Hun  woke  up  and 
started  bleating,  and  we  got  scraps  of  Telefunken 
from  the  south,  mixed  up  with  pats  on  the  back  to 
our  destroyers  from  the  Admiralty." 

The  youngest  modern  destroyer  commander  in  the 
service  moved  uncomfortably  in  his  chair. 

"And  in  the  morning  Teace,  perfect  peace7  from 
the  flagship  and  'Back  to  harbour/  "  said  the  gun- 
nery lieutenant  from  the  Battle  Fleet.  The  usual 
weary  stunt.  You  bagged  a  Zepp,  though,  didn't 
you?" 

"Yes.  Inquisitive  blighter.  You'd  have  enjoyed 
that." 

"Twelve-inch?" 

"Shrapnel." 

"Ah,"  said  Jerome  complacently.  "That  was  our 
little  show.  Glad  you  all  enjoyed  yourselves." 

"Yes,"  cut  in  Brakespear  quickly,  "you  flushed 
'em  very  nicely  down  south  that  night.  We  De- 
stroyers had  a  very  pretty  little  dust-up." 

"What  did  you  do,  Jerry?"  asked  Aughtlone. 
"We  all  seem  to  have  been  more  or  less  mixed  up 
in  the  affair — Foster,  were  you  embroiled?" 

The  Minelayer  chuckled.  "Indirectly,"  he  said, 
"but  nothing  very  spectacular.  WeVe  usually  got 
home  and  tucked  each  other  up  in  by-bye  when  the 
fireworks  start,  in  our  line  of  business !" 

"Come  on,  Jerry,"  said  Mayhew;  "what  did  you 
do  in  the  Great  War,  daddy?" 

"Well,"  said  the  stout  one,  suffering  Hughes  to 


EPILOGUE  275 

replenish  his  glass,  "well,  personally,  I  didn't  do  a 
hell  of  a  lot  that  night.  But  the — what  d'ye  call  it? 
— cumulative  effect  wasn't  too  bad.  That  was  the 
night  they  sprang  a  new  stunt  on  us.  Things  that 
looked  like  balls  of  fire — red-hot  liquid  stuff.  I  got 
a  lump  on  my  fusilage  and  it  ran  down  the  plane  and 
dripped  off — like  phosphorus  streaming  off  the  blade 
of  an  oar  in  the  dark.  ...  I  had  a  53O-lb.  bomb 
tucked  under  my  seat  and  I  was  nervous.  .  .  .  I'm 
getting  old,  anyway.  Dam'  nearly  thirty." 

"Start  at  the  beginning,"  said  Aughtlone  hungrily. 

"No,  no,"  interrupted  Longridge  in  a  low  voice. 
"Let  him  tell  it  in  his  own  comic  way.  Jerry  always 
begins  somewhere  near  the  end." 

The  stout  one  assumed  an  injured  expression. 
"What's  wrong?  I  am  starting  at  the  beginning. 
.  .  .  We  went  up  along  the  coast.  I  took  a  squadron 
of  'planes:  Flight  Leaders:  two  Canucks,  a  New 
Zealander,  and  an  Oxford  undergraduate  who'd  lost 
his  young  woman  in  the  Lusitania  and  didn't  care  if 
it  snowed  ink:  a  Yank  who'd  been  in  Belgium  when 
the  Huns  started  what  he  called  'getting  gay' — > 
newspaper  reporter  or  something — and  a  Yorkshire 
dog-fancier — a  quirk,1  but  full-out.  They  were  all 
full-out,  as  a  matter  of  fact :  good  lads,  especially  the 
Yank."  The  narrator  paused.  "He'd  seen  a  baby 
in  a  butcher's  shop — in  Liege,  I  think  it  was.  The 
Huns  had  cut  its  hands  off  and  hung  it  on  a  hook. 
.  .  .  He  was  not  so  much  a  scientific  bomber,  really, 

*A  novice. 


276  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

as  zealous.  Very  zealous.  ...  I  lost  the  quirk, 
and  one  of  my  Canucks,  but  the  other  got  back  all 
right" 

"Alpha  and  Omega,"  cut  in  Foster.  "The  be- 
ginning and  the  end.  Now,  Jerry,  let's  have  the 
story." 

"Hang  it,  I've  told  you  the  story.  You  know  the 
rest,  anyhow.  I  dropped  my  contribution  to  the 
gaiety  of  nations,  and  the  lock-gates  went.  There 
were  half  a  dozen  destroyers  in  harbour,  and  they 
got  the  wind  up  them  and  bolted  for  the  open 
sea " 

"That's  when  we  nabbed  'em,"  said  Brakespear. 
"They  were  trying  to  nip  for  Ostend,  and  they  put 
up  a  very  pretty  little  scrap,  thanks,  Jerry.  We  De- 
stroyers were  waiting  outside." 

"Not 't  all !"  said  the  Flying  Man  modestly;  "we'd 
had  all  the  fun  we  wanted.  There  was  a  squadron 
of  Handley  Pages  there,  and  some  French  machines, 
and  they  made  the  oil-tanks  look  like  Cities  of  the 
Plain  before  they  went  home."  He  turned  to  Long- 
ridge.  *  'Member  the  review  at  Spithead  before  the 
war — when  they  had  that  searchlight  display,  all  the 
beams  whirling  round  in  the  sky?  You  dined  with 
me  that  night." 

Longridge  nodded.  "I  remember.  We  went  on 
deck  to  watch  the  performance.  ...  It  made  me 
sick,"  he  concluded  naively. 

"Well,"  said  Jerome,  "I  looked  back  over  my 
shoulder  on  the  return  journey,  and  thought  of  that 


EPILOGUE  277 

night  at  Spithead.  The  sky  looked  like  a  huge  Cath- 
erine wheel.  We  made  a  photographic  reconnais- 
sance next  day.  .  .  ."  He  clucked  softly  with  his 
tongue  against  his  teeth.  "Tony,"  he  said,  "that 
place  looked  like  your  face  would  if  you  got  small- 
pox after  fighting  ten  rounds  with  Jack  Johnson  with- 
out gloves." 

"Thank  you,"  said  his  host.  "Simile  seems  to  be 
your  strong  point  to-night." 

"It's  the  drink,"  said  Longridge.  "He  develops 
a  graphic  style  if  you  leave  the  decanter  near  him 
and  don't  interrupt." 

"Where  did  you  catch  'em,  Brakes,  you  and  your 
precious  T.B.D.'s?"  asked  Foster.  "We  were  going 
home  when  the  fun  started.  Laid  our  eggs  early  and 
decided  that  the  quiet  life  was  the  thing  that  really 
appealed  to  us." 

"Close  in,"  was  the  reply.  "One  Division  cut  'em 
off  and  the  other  waited  for  'em.  It  was  a  well- 
organised  little  show."  He  laughed.  "Ever  since 
that  show  of  the  Broke' s  every  mother's  son  in  the 
Destroyer  Force  walks  about  with  a  fire-bar  down 
the  leg  of  his  trousers — so  as  to  have  it  handy,  don't 
you  know.  .  .  .  My  foremost  guns'  crews  spend 
their  dog-watches  sharpening  their  cutlasses  on  their 
razor-strops  and  making  knuckle-dusters:  .  .  .  the 
sailor  is  nothing  if  he  isn't  thorough. 

"Well,  that  night  we  picked  out  our  opposite 
number  by  the  flame  of  his  funnels,  and  I  put  my  old 
hooker  at  him,  an'  rammed  him,  full  bore.  Caught 


278  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

him  rather  far  forward — farther  than  I  meant  to, 
but  good  enough  for  the  purpose.  It  was  like 
cutting  cheese  with  a  hot  knife.  .  .  .  Then  of  course 
the  matelots  went  berserk.  I  saw  the  gunner's  mate 
go  over  the  side  on  to  her  forecastle,  lugging  a 
maxim  with  him  and  howling  like  a  dervish  at  the 
head  of  a  crowd  that  looked  as  if  they'd  rushed  out 
of  a  pirate  junk  instead  of  a  respectable  British  de- 
stroyer. My  yeoman  of  signals  borrowed  my  auto- 
matic pistol,  and  sprayed  it  about  till  I  wrenched  it 
away  from  him  for  fear  he'd  hit  one  of  our  men. 
The  sub  was  clawing  at  her  ensign  with  a  party  of 
die-hards  round  him  laying  about  them  with  cutlasses 
like  characters  in  a  Shakespearian  play,  and  to  add 
to  the  excitement  the  watch  below  in  the  engine- 
room,  who  had  just  been  relieved,  were  slinging  scald- 
ing cocoa  over  the  rails  into  the  Huns'  faces."  The 
speaker  wiped  his  mouth,  after  an  interval  for  re- 
freshment. "I'm  still  hoarse  with  laughing  and 
bawling  at  the  gunner's  mate  not  to  start  easing  off 
the  maxim  into  the  crowd.  And  if  you  could  have 
seen  'em  lugging  prisoners  over  the  rail,  and  the 
Huns  trying  to  pull  them  back  by  their  feet — like 
a  lot  of  demented  people  pulling  crackers  across  a 
table!  Lord!  I  shall  never  forget  it  if  I  live  to 
be  a  million. 

"Then  she  sank — just  fell  in  half  and  went  down. 
I  had  half  my  ship's  company  in  the  water,  as  well 
as  the  Huns.  They  were  just  like  a  lot  of  fighting 
dogs  after  a  hose  had  been  played  on  them.  Lucky 


EPILOGUE  279 

the  Hun  hadn't  got  a  submarine  about,  because  I  had 
to  stop  and  pick  'em  all  up.  Another  Hun  destroyer 
had  been  torpedoed  not  far  off,  and  was  burning 
like  a  hayrick.  She  enlivened  matters  by  taking 
'sitters'  at  us  with  her  after-gun  while  she  sank,  so 
I  had  to  silence  her  first,  and  by  the  time  I  got  the 
last  of  my  Death-or-Glory  boys  out  of  the  water 
they  were  pretty  far  gone.  I  asked  one  fellow  how 
he'd  enjoyed  himself,  and  he  said,  'Law,  sir,  fine! 
We  was  flickin'  off  their  'eads  wiv  the  cutlass,  same's 
it  might  ha'  bin  dandelions !'  ' 

"Take  many  prisoners?"  asked  Aughtlone,  laugh- 
ing. 

"Fifty-one,  and  their  flag.  The  sub  told  me  he 
wanted  to  present  it  to  the  'Goat'  or  Westminster 
Abbey,  wasn't  sure  which.  Some  of  the  Huns  were 
pretty  nearly  done,  and  my  surgeon  probationer  had 
a  busy  time  getting  life  back  into  one  or  two.  He 
carried  them  down  to  the  stokehold  and  worked  at 
'em  in  the  warmth.  While  he  was  down  there,  the 
sub  came  up  to  me  and  said  there  was  another  in  the 
forecastle  lockers,  pegging  out,  he  thought;  so  when 
things  got  quiet,  I  went  along  to  see  if  I  could  do 
anything.  He  was  just  about  all-in,  but  he  had 
strength  enough  to  put  out  his  tongue  at  me " 

"Saucy  puss !"  from  Jerome. 

"He  was  clay  cold,  and  no  amount  of  rubbing 
would  warm  him,  so  I  told  a  couple  of  braves  to 
carry  him  down  to  the  doctor  in  the  stokehold.  The 
Hun  just  knew  enough  English  to  catch  the  word 


28o  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

'stokehold/  and  he  thought  I'd  ordered  him  to  be 
shoved  into  the  furnace  for  putting  out  his  tongue  at 
me.  Imagine  the  sort  of  minds  they  must  have." 

"Their  officers  tell  'em  those  penny-dreadful 
stories  to  discourage  a  tendency  to  surrender/'  said 
Foster. 

"Well,  it  saved  his  life,  anyway,  that  spasm.  He 
yelled  and  fought  and  bit  and  kicked.  It  took  five 
men  to  get  him  along  the  upper-deck,  and  all  the 
way  he  was  shouting:  'Ach,  no!  No! — No! — No! 
— No !'  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  By  the  time  we  got 
him  to  the  stokehold  hatchway  he'd  recovered  all 
the  animation  he'd  ever  had,  and  there  wasn't  any 
need  for  the  doctor!" 

"What  was  the  total  bag?"  asked  Mayhew. 

"Four — one  rammed,  two  torpedoed,  and  one 
sunk  by  gunfire  by  the  light  cruisers.  There  were 
six  all-told." 

"But,"  interrupted  Longridge,  "doesn't  it  rather 
tickle  you  to  think  of  our  being  able  to  wipe  the  floor 
with  their  destroyers  and  not  a  blessed  capital  ship 
dares  come  out  of  Wilhelmshaven  to  save  'em! 
There  we  were  in  the  Battle  Cruisers,  trailing  the 
tail  of  our  coat  all  round  the  Heligoland  Bight,  and 
— nothing  doing,  if  you  please.  Ain't  that  what's 
called  Sea  Power?" 

"Hum'm,"  said  Foster,  and  chuckled.  "I  don't 
know  about  Sea  Power:  I'm  only  a  humble  Mine- 
layer. But  this  may  throw  some  light  on  the  situa- 


EPILOGUE  281 

tion."  He  drew  a  pocket-book  from  his  pocket.  "I 
saw  a  translation  of  a  paragraph  from  a  Dutch  pa- 
per in  the  press  this  morning.  I  cut  it  out  to  send 
my  skipper  in  case  he  hadn't  seen  it."  He  handed 
the  slip  to  Aughtlone.  "I  thought  it  would  cheer 
him  up." 

"The  crew  of  the Lightship  report  that  at 

3  a.m.  on  Tuesday  morning  a  number  of  very  heavy 
explosions  occurred  in  a  southerly  direction.  In  sev- 
eral cases  a  sheet  of  flame  was  seen  to  ascend  to  an 
altitude  of  at  least  150  metres.  One  of  the  men 
who  had  passed  through  the  North  Sea  on  the  night 
of  the  Battle  of  Jutland  stated  that  he  recognised 
the  flashes  as  from  big  ships  blowing  up." 

Aughtlone  read  the  cutting  aloud,  and  handed  it 
back.  "That  was  your  dirty  work,  was  it?" 

The  minelayer  laughed.  "Act  o'  God,  we  like 
to  call  it,"  he  said.  "Or  in  the  words  of  that  beau- 
tiful poem: 

"The  boy,  oh,  where  was  he?" 

Aughtlone  joined  in  the  laughter.  "That's  all 
very  fine,"  he  said,  "but  didn't  any  of  your  light- 
house friends  further  north  observe  my  little  con- 
tretemps later  on  in  the  morning?  But  perhaps  they 
wouldn't  notice  a  mere  minesweeper  blowing  up." 
He  removed  the  stoppers  from  the  decanters  and 
pusned  them  to  Mayhew  on  his  left.  "That  Zepp 
you  were  talking  about  evidently  gave  the  tip  that 


282  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

you  were  out  to  a  minelaying  submarine,  because  we 
located  a  minefield  on  what  would  have  been  the 
Battle  Fleet's  course  if  you'd  come  south.  I  lost  a 
paddler  clearing  it,  and  got  a  swim  before  break- 
fast." 

"How  did  you  know  the  minefield  was  there?" 
asked  Longridge. 

"Dutch  ship  blew  up.  'Matter  of  fact,  she  blew 
up  on  a  stray  one.  I  went  to  the  position  she'd 
given  us,  and  before  we  started  sweeping  we  were 
on  top  of  Fritz's  eggs  which  he'd  intended  for  you. 
Ah,  well,  we  raked  'em  up  and  I  got  my  leave,  so 
we  won't  bear  Fritz  any  malice  this  time."  He 
paused,  glass  in  hand. 

"The  King,"  he  said  quietly. 

"The  King,"  murmured  the  others.  "Yes,  I  got 
my  leave  out  of  that  night's  work,  too,"  said  the  de- 
stroyer captain.  "Rather  damaged  our  classic  pro- 
file, and  had  to  dock  for  a  few  days  to  straighten 
the  stem.  .  .  ." 

Beyond  the  open  bay  windows  the  blue  dusk  was 
closing  down  on  the  yews  and  scented  borders.  The 
long,  deep  drone  of  a  cockchafer  went  past  and  died 
to  nothing. 

The  host  sent  the  decanters  on  their  second  round 
and  leaned  forward  a  little  in  his  chair. 

"It's  been  jolly  nice  to  see  you  dear  old  things 
again,"  he  said,  "and  talk  over  the  War,  as  we 
swore  we  would  some  day  when  we  were  kids."  He 


EPILOGUE  283 

paused.    "And  now  there's  a  toast  I  vote  we  drink. 
He — he'd  have  been  here  if  this  dinner  had  been  a 

month  earlier.    As  it  is "  he  raised  his  glass — 

"we  can  only  drink  to  his  memory." 

No  name  was  mentioned.  They  nodded;  drank 
gravely,  in  silence  and  perfect  comprehension. 

Brakespear,  facing  his  host,  broke  the  silence.  "I 
saw  him  a  couple  of  days  ago,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Eh?"  ejaculated  Jerome  sharply. 

"But,"  said  Foster,  "his  boat  was  lost — oh,  more 
than  three  weeks  ago." 

Brakespear  nodded.  "I  know.  But  they  salved 
her  and  brought  her  in,  near  where  my  ship  was 
lying.  Dacre — the  submarine  one,  not  his  brother 
— went  on  board  to  make  an  examination  and — and 
take  the  bodies  out.  So  I  went  too,  because  he  and 
I — I  was  very  fond  of  him  .  .  ."  Brakespear 
reached  for  the  cigar  lighter. 

"What  happened?"  asked  Mayhew.  "We  never 
hear  any  details  of  these  things  up  north." 

"Well,  they  got  holed  and  sank  stern  first  appar- 
ently. Stuck  in  the  bottom.  However,  they  man- 
aged to  stop  the  hole  up  with  clothing  and  tallow  and 
stopped  the  inrush  of  water :  but  they  couldn't  move 
the  boat.  Blew  everything  and  shifted  weights,  but 
she  wouldn't  budge.  Then  the  first  lieutenant  vol- 
unteered to  go  out  through  the  bow  torpedo  tube. 
They  tied  a  message  to  his  wrist  and  he  crawled 
into  the  tube:  they  fired  it  with  compressed  air,  as 


284  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

if  he'd  been  a  torpedo.  They  waited  for  a  couple 
of  hours,  and  then  someone  opened  the  tube  door, 
just  to  make  sure.  .  .  .  But  he  was  still  there — 
jambed.  .  .  ." 

The  butler  entered  with  the  coffee,  and  the  nar- 
rator was  silent  till  he  had  gone. 

"You  know  the  foremost  hatch  in  those  boats,  for 
lowering  torpedoes?"  he  resumed.  Apparently  they 
decided  to  try  getting  a  big  air  pressure  in  the  boat, 
then  open  this  hatch  and  chance  being  blown  through 
to  the  surface  in  the  bubble. "  The  speaker  puffed  a 
cloud  of  smoke  and  watched  it  eddy  about  the  flow- 
ers in  the  centre  of  the  table.  uSo  they  stripped  and 
put  on  swimming  collars  and  life-belts,  and  mustered 
two-deep  under  the  hatchway." 

Longridge  was  tracing  a  pattern  in  the  ash  from 
his  cigarette  on  the  side  of  his  dessert-plate.  UA11  of 
'em?"  he  interrupted.  "Shouldn't  have  thought 
there  was  room." 

"No,  there  wasn't.  There  wasn't  room  for  him 
or  his  coxswain.  We  found  those  two  fully  dressed, 
without  life-belts  or  anything,  right  the  other  end  of 
the  compartment  away  from  any  hope  of  escape. 
But  he  wrote  his  report,  giving  clear  and  explicit 
directions  for  salving,  amongst  other  things,  and 
tied  it  to  the  second  coxswain's  wrist.  .  .  .  Then 
when  they  were  all  ready  he  gave  the  word — from 
the  other  end  of  the  compartment — and  the  men  all 
heaved  the  hatch  up  together." 


EPILOGUE  285 

Behind  the  speaker's  shoulders  the  blue  oblongs. 
of  the  windows  had  darkened  into  blackness.  A 
nightingale  far  off  among  the  laurels  was  pouring 
out  her  liquid  song  into  the  night,  and  for  a  while 
Brakespear  seemed  to  be  listening  to  it,  twirling  the 
stem  of  his  wine-glass  absently  between  finger  and 
thumb.  No  one  spoke. 

"It  was  one  of  those  stupid  little  accidents,"  he 
went  on  presently,  still  in  the  same  low,  grave  tones, 
"a  thing  so  utterly  insignificant,  that  stood  between 
Life  and  Death  for  them.  Yet  it  happened.  The 
hatch  opened  about  six  inches  and  jambed.  They 
could  neither  raise  nor  lower  it.  The  water  just 
poured  in." 

"Drowned  'em,"  said  Longridge  tensely.  The 
superfluity  of  the  remark  seemed  to  strike  him.  "Of 
course,"  he  added,  as  if  talking  to  himself. 

"Yes." 

"And  they  were  still  two-deep  when  you  found 
them  ?"  asked  Foster. 

"Yes.  There  must  have  been  perfect  discipline 
from  first  to  last.  And  his  letter " 

The  speaker's  voice  caught  abruptly,  as  a  trailing 
garment  catches  in  a  nail.  The  ensuing  silence  re- 
mained unbroken  till  Aughtlone  slowly  pushed  back 
his  chair. 

"I  vote  we  go  and  have  a  game  of  pool,"  he  said 
quietly. 


286  THE  NAVY  ETERNAE 

The  hall  clock  chimed  one  on  a  thin  scandalised 
note  as  the  candle-lit  procession  wended  its  way  bed- 
wards  up  the  wide  stairway.  It  was  one  of  the 
Aughtlone  traditions  that  the  old  house  should  re- 
main lit  by  lamps  and  candles. 

Aughtlone  led  the  way,  and,  as  he  reached  the  gal- 
lery overlooking  the  hall,  he  turned,  smiling,  and 
raised  his  candle  above  his  head  as  if  to  light  the 
way  better  for  his  guests.  They  came  towards  him 
fty  ones  and  twos,  Jerome  encircling  Foster's  neck 
with  his  arm  and  crooning  softly  to  himself,  a  pic- 
ture of  Falstaffian  contentment:  Mayhew,  with  one 
hand  on  the  balustrade,  looking  back  over  his  shoul- 
der to  address  some  laughing  remark  to  Longridge 
at  his  heels ;  Brakespear  bringing  up  the  rear,  grave 
and  thoughtful  as  was  his  wont,  his  thin,  handsome 
face  white  as  ivory  against  the  dark  panelling. 

"Hi,  Podgie!"  called  Mayhew,  "ain't  they  goin' 
to  make  you  a  Major-General  in  the  Air  Force,  or 
something?  What's  all  this  talk  about  amalgamat- 
ing the  R.N.A.S.  and  R.F.C.?" 

The  Flying  Man  reached  the  landing  and  disen- 
tangled his  arm  from  his  companion.  "I  shall  be 
a  Lieutenant-Colonel,"  he  said.  "A  Lieutenant- 
Colonel — me,  what's  been  in  the  Navy,  man  and 
boy,  these  fifteen  years."  He  frowned  severely  at 
an  armour-clad  effigy  against  the  wall.  "Amalga- 
mate  " 

"Never  mind,"  said  Foster.    "Never  mind,  Pod- 


EPILOGUE  287 

gie,  we  don't  care.  We  shall  know  you  couldn't  help 
being  a  Lieutenant-Colonel,  and  that  you  belonged 
to  the  Navy  once." 

"He'll  always  belong  to  it,"  said  Mayhew.  "He's 
only  camouflaged,  and  one  of  these  days  he'll  come 
back  to  us.  The  Navy  ain't  like  any  other  profes- 
sion: you  can't  suddenly  become  something  else  by 
dressing  up  in  a  different  rig" — he  pointed  to  the 
effigy  in  armour — uany  more  than  I'd  cease  to  be  a 
Gunnery  Lieutenant  if  I  shoved  on  that  fellow's  su- 
perfine tin  suitings." 

"This,"  said  Longridge,  "is  developing  into  a 
'Branch-kagg.' a  I'm  going  to  turn  in." 

"Breakfast  at  ten!"  shouted  the  host  as  Long- 
ridge  detached  himself  from  the  group  and  disap- 
peared up  a  corridor. 

"And,  anyhow,"  said  Brakespear,  "even  if  our 
Podgie  fades  away,  to  become  a  Lieutenant-Colonel 
in  a  gorgeous  uniform " 

"Sky-blue,  ain't  it,  Podgie?"  interposed  Aught- 
lone.  Brakespear  disregarded  the  interruption. 

"Even  if,  I  say,  Podgie  departs  from  our  midst, 
the  Navy  remains.  And  if  I — even  I — go  up  in  the 
next  'Jutland,'  or  Foster  trips  over  one  of  his  in- 
fernal machines  accidentally  in  the  dark " 

"Or  I  get  wafted  skywards  clearing  a  mine-field 
next  week,"  said  Aughtlone. 

1An   argument  as  to  the  comparative  merits  and  demerits  of 
the  respective  branches  of  H.M.  Naval  Service. 


288  THE  NAVY  ETERNAL 

"Exactly.  .  .  .  Others  would  take  our  places. 
The  individual  doesn't  count. — Podgie,  you're  drip- 
ping candle-grease  on  Tony's  ormulu  carpet.  .  .  ." 

"I'm  going  to  bed,"  said  the  stout  one.  "You're 
all  getting  a  trifle  maudlin.  .  .  ." 

Foster  yawned.  "I'm  going  too.  But  Brakes  is 
right.  What's  it  matter  what  happens  to  us  as  long 
as  we  shove  the  wheel  round  a  spoke  or  two  in  our 
short  trick?"  He  wagged  his  head  solemnly. 
"Life's  dev'lish  short,  anyway.  .  .  .  Come  on,  Pod- 
gie. 'And  so  to  bed.'  .  .  .  'Night  all!" 

Aughtlone  watched  the  twin  glimmers  fade  away 
down  the  long  corridor  and  turned  to  his  last  re- 
maining guest. 

"We're  a  tongue-tied  breed,"  he  said.  "We've 
been  trying  to  voice  some  tremendous  sentiment 
that's  been  struggling  for  expression  all  the  evening, 
and " 

"It's  had  us  beat,"  said  Brakespear.  He  made  a 
circle  in  the  air  with  the  wavering  candle-flame. 
"It's  too  big.  We've  all  seen  so  much  in  this  bloody 
war,  collectively.  .  .  .  We  feel  that  we  are  the 
Navy  and  the  Navy  is  us;  yet,  somehow,  we  don't 
count  much  as  individuals." 

"It's  because  we're  finite,"  said  Aughtlone.  He 
leaned  against  the  carved  balustrade  that  swept 
round  and  up  into  the  darkness  of  the  great  house, 
and  stared  absently  at  the  mailed  figure  standing  in 
the  shadows:  the  light  of  the  candles  flickered  on 
hauberk  and  vizor  through  which  the  breath  of  some 


EPILOGUE 


289 


forgotten  ancestor  had  once  come  and  gone.    "The 

individual  passes " 

"Yes,"  said  Brakespear.  He  took  a  step  along 
the  thick  carpet  and  halted.  "But  the  Navy's  eter- 
nal." 


14  DAY  USE 

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LD  21A-50m-8,'57                                  University  of  California 
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